Elemental
by The Labris
Summary: Ginny’s been given gifts in her life that people can never take away, some curses, some blessings. Her world spins in her fifth year when she is forced to come to grips with her new powers and control them before they control her. DG
1. Prelude

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER ONE:**

**Prelude**

* * *

_Infusion_

She was too far along for this. Six childbirths gave her enough experience to tell her that much. In her second trimester, traipsing about the forest wasn't ideal. Not only was she feeling rather hot, but she was barefooted, and she'd left her children at home with only Arthur to look over them. Molly loved Arthur very much indeed, but she was realistic. Arthur couldn't even change diapers. So when her three-year-old twin sons went gallivanting about the countryside on a magically powered wheelbarrow, she had reason to fear.

Though it was late, the sun was just sinking down for the night. Fred and George were in for it when she caught them. They were by far the most mischievous of her children; Percy would never do something like this. But at the same time, she felt a great swell of pride in her brood. Fred and George were going to be master charmers when they grew up; the way they charmed the wheelbarrow into moving with no wand proved enough.

Unfortunately (but in a good way), Arthur's side of the family was cursed with multiple Showings, the wizarding term for when a child first showed signs of talent. These multiple Showings had started for Bill when he was only one, Charlie when he was sixteen months, Percy when he was ten months, Fred and George when they were thirteen months, and Ron had Shown when he was ten months as well. All had Shown surprisingly early (a good sign that all would be rather powerful) and often (a good sign that they would be an annoyance for long after their first Showing). But pride swelled in her all the same.

Now with her last ("No more, Arthur!" "But, Molly..." "I said 'no'!" "I wanted a girl, too.") child in her womb, she trudged up the slope of the slow incline. The wheelbarrow tracks led that way. She sighed, rolling her eyes and wishing Arthur had volunteered for baby chasing. This was the fifth time this week, and though it was her turn, she really didn't want to.

Grumbling irritably, she thanked whoever was listening that Bill, Charlie, and Percy had come to Control (the wizarding term used for those who had begun to gain command over their powers) rather soon. She had a feeling Fred and George would hang onto their last bits of Showing until the very end. Maybe Ron would be well-behaved. Then she snorted. Since when were her children 'well-behaved?' Percy was, despite his age, bossy and cynical, and he was the best behaved of the bunch. Bill and Charlie were very close but troublemakers in their own right. They were leading Fred and George down the wrong path right quickly.

Molly stopped as she felt a kicking. She smiled, rubbing her belly. She always got a thrill out of this; it would be what she missed most about children. It made her feel whole to have children, knowing they would continue the Weasley legacy. All the things her great family would do... And this one especially, the one she was carrying. She was a girl, this much Molly knew. There was no test to see if children were boys or girls in the wizarding world, only that feeling a witch would get when she carried a child in her womb.

She had successfully predicted her first six children, knowing almost automatically they would be strong, healthy, little boys. She didn't fool herself; she was no diviner. In fact, Divination had probably been her worst subject, until it came to dreams, that is. She had a special gift in that particular field.

It had manifested when she turned sixteen, near the end of her sixth year. She had begun dreaming more frequently, sleeping less often, then more often, and seeing through a gauze-like film during the day, as though she was half-asleep. She had learned from her mother that summer that she, as her mother and her mother's mother before her, was a Dreamweaver.

"A Dreamweaver," her mother had explained, "is just that. You have the ability to create dreams, enter other people's dreams, change their dreams, and interpret what they mean. It's a very special gift, Molly, and I expect you to respect it and use it well."

And she did. Molly had always kept her power in check; though sometimes when she was stressed it would become unmanageable, and she would intercept other people's dreams on accident. It was something that happened when she was young, something that terrified her very much, mostly because she never had any control over whose dreams she invaded, however accidental it was. Arthur's dreams were always very simple, full of love and hope and invention and so many other wonderful things. But it was when she captured the dreams of scary people, people like Lucius Malfoy, that she regretted her ability.

It had happened her seventh year; she had been tutoring a group of first years in Potions, a class she was surprisingly good at. A skinny, blonde boy with sharp gray eyes and a wicked tongue was ordered into the group by the Potions professor, Marian Glamis. Truth be told, Lucius at age eleven was wretched and painfully insulting.

She had been stressed one day because of him and accidentally captured a dream of his. It was a nightmare; it had to have been. There was blood and terror everywhere. There were visions, very quick, of an older, blonde-haired man looking to be Lucius' father, beating him with a cane and cursing him, using Unforgivables even.

Molly shivered at the memory, hoping her child would never have to experience dreams like that. She rubbed her belly again, trying to calm her child with good dreams. That was the thing that had given her baby away as a potential Dreamweaver; she was very susceptive to early dream manipulation. She remembered her mother explaining it to her a few years ago, before she died. Her mother would have liked a granddaughter.

Smiling as her child settled, she took off once again, looking ahead of her at the setting sun and checking the path for signs of wheelbarrow. It seemed Fred and George had veered off to the left.

Then a chill ran down her back, and she stiffened. She knew that feeling. Her eyes flashed to the right, opposite the way of her boys. In the distance something was happening, something deeply magical. She felt it in her bones, her blood, her very cells. It was everywhere, a humming, deep, elemental sensation. Molly realized there could only be one thing happening. She had to run.

It would be a Meeting; there was no doubt about it. But there should have been a warning; there should have been reports. Couldn't they predict these events now? And her children were out when it happened! She had to get to them and fast. So she began to run. It was slow moving; she couldn't let the Meeting reach her. It meant saving four lives, the lives of Fred and George, her unborn daughter's and her own. Moving as fast as she could away from the charging Meeting, she let out a grunt of pain as she tripped and just barely landed on her back, shielding her daughter.

She clutched her stomach, hoping the Meeting would pass right over her. It was doubtful, but maybe. The humming feeling came closer, closer and closer until her whole body vibrated with it. The heat had become immense, too much for her baby to handle, she knew. It was almost too much for her; she felt like passing out. The fiery waves of heat whipped around her body, a scorching tornado.

She realized it was a meeting of Fire and Wind, and she forgot to tell herself how lucky she was. If it was Fire and Water or Earth and Wind, she would have been dead by now. The Meeting of polar opposites usually ended in catastrophe, death, and destruction. As it was, Meetings could kill tens to tens of thousands, but getting caught in a Meeting of, say, Fire and Water was lethal.

But just as she was sure that all would end, giving out one wish and prayer that at least her children were safe, everything stopped. She figured it was the eye of the Meeting, the central point where no activity occurred. Straining with the heat still, she opened her eyes cautiously.

It was bright, almost too bright. A red color was mixing with a clear, almost silvery color. It was vibrating all around her, the pure magic of the elements almost too much for her. It was like radiation, penetrating her soul and, she feared, the soul of her unborn child.

Then a deep, booming voice fell upon her ears. "Human of the Earth! You have been chosen as a vessel! Accept or die, it is your choice. Choose death, and you choose the death of your children as well."

Molly was stunned into silence. She had been chosen as a vessel for what exactly?

And as though the voice had heard her, it answered. "You will be a vessel for the Child; the Meeting of Fire and Wind has been completed successfully, and offspring has occurred. Accept your charge or die; it is your choice."

A moment of belligerence came over Molly, and she forced herself to stand, physically spiting the pressure caused by the magic around her. "And what of my child!? Should I sacrifice my daughter for the Powers?"

To her surprise, there was a silence. She wondered for a moment if she had gone too far and the Meeting was going to kill her. A few moments later, the voice returned. "A pact can be made with you, Human of the Earth. Your daughter will be a hybrid, a living, breathing combination of fire, wind, and flesh."

Molly's mouth fell. They would make her daughter elemental? How? Why? Oh, why did she have to be caught up in this? A sigh escaped her, and she felt like waving her hands in defeat. Oh, the life her daughter would live. And she would live, no matter what Molly had to do.

"And you will not harm my boys?" she asked carefully.

"Their safety will be ensured," came the answer.

Hanging her head, Molly agreed to the terms.

She didn't clearly remember what happened next. She remembered feeling very light, and a bright glow everywhere. It was like a metallic red, and it was everywhere. She remembered fire and wind, lots of wind and even more fire, and then spinning.

When she woke, she was on the ground, her head pounding and her belly aching. Two high-pitched voices were crying at her, red-headed children. It dawned on her; they were Fred and George.

"Mummy! Mummy!" Fred wailed.

"We want to go home, Mummy!" George reiterated.

They were on the ground next to her, both with tears rolling down their cheeks and blotchy red spots on their faces. Smiling, but with tears in her eyes, Molly hugged both of her boys close to her. She began to stand, feeling the ache in her belly and deciding to check on her baby. Her dreams were soft and content, a child's dreams. It seemed as though the Meeting had no lasting impression on her. Molly smiled wanly; she was going to have a lot to explain to her baby girl.

Her hands went to her belly, and she rubbed it absently. Then she stopped and looked down. Her belly was a lot larger. And she meant a lot. She looked like she was ready to burst! While Fred and George had been big for twins, they were nothing like this. Molly felt as though an anvil were in her stomach, not a baby. She groaned as she walked, taking the hands of Fred and George.

"Mummy?" Fred asked, looking up with big, blue eyes. He appeared to be over his fear now; being with his mother soothed his worries. "You're big, Mummy."

"Bigger than this morning," George added.

"Mummy feels big," Molly said labouredly, going down the hill at a steady, but slow, pace. She saw the Burrow and wanted to cry. Home at last! The first thing she was going to do was sleep, that was, if the aching in her belly ever stopped.

Fred and George ran to the house, calling loudly to their father, something Molly was happy for. But when Arthur came out, his jaw dropped at what he saw. Molly couldn't blame him; she would have done the same thing. She knew she looked like a balloon, and she certainly felt like one.

"Molly?" he said to her, obviously confused. He said it slowly, the voice he used when he didn't understand. "Molly, what happened?"

"I got caught, Arthur," she said tiredly, falling into his open arms. He held her soundly, kissing her forehead, his strong arms wrapping around her, comforting her. "The Meeting came upon me too fast."

Arthur stiffened. "It should have been me, Molly. I don't even know how you survived. Oh gods, what have I done? What happened to you?"

"I..."

Then Molly stopped. It had happened. She looked up at Arthur with her big, brown eyes, face telling all. "Arthur...my water broke. We have to go...NOW!"

"We're not ready! Oh Merlin! Okay, Molly, can you Apparate?" he asked, looking frantic.

"Not this time," she ground out. This was magically induced; she knew it! Damn interfering Elements! Merlin! The contractions weren't supposed to come yet! "Get me to Mungo's now, Arthur!"

"All right! All right! The Floo, the Floo! We'll take the Floo!" he said excitedly.

Molly wanted desperately to punch him, but knew he was just excited about the baby. Why did men get like this? And her husband, of all people? Six childbirths! "Call Meredith Diggory to take care of the boys," Molly said as calmly as she could.

"Yes! Yes, of course!" Arthur said frantically, going inside to use the Floo.

Bill, Charlie, and Percy, who had come out of the house by then, looked up at her. Well, Bill, who was twelve, could almost look down on her. "Charlie and I can take care of Percy, Fred, George, and Ron, Mum," Bill volunteered.

Molly smiled in spite of her condition. "I'm sure you can, Bill," she said gently.

"I don't need to be taken care of!" Percy pouted, standing closer to Molly as he said it, his bottom lip puffing out. "I'm old enough."

"I'm sure you are, Percy," Molly said, another, magically induced contraction coming and passing. At least they weren't that bad...yet.

"Oh, Molly!" a blonde, blue-eyed woman said in a matronly voice. Molly sighed in relief. It was Meredith. "I just came; I'd be happy to take care of the boys for a few days. Go now! And good lord, Molly, you're huge!"

Molly gritted her teeth. Meredith smiled knowingly, the swell of a second child in her already. "All right, Meredith," Molly said in a strained voice.

Arthur came up behind her, leading her to the fireplace, and they took the Floo to Mungo's. Almost immediately, she was on a bed, the contractions wracking her body. She found herself wishing adamantly that she had never been caught in the Meeting and that she wasn't so pregnant. She felt slightly stretched, like all the nutrients had been taken from her body and given to her new child. She figured that was what had happened and wanted to wreak havoc on any person who said childbirth was easy.

It wasn't long after that the nurses told her they were going to have to put her under; the childbirth would have been too hard on her otherwise. Having gone through six childbirths already, she wasn't happy about this. But having no other choice when they actually did put her under, her opinions weren't voiced.

* * *

_Ginevra or Ginny_

It was hours and hours later that Molly woke. The familiar soreness of her back, legs, stomach, and vaginal path, combined with her feeling of tired contentment, reminded her that she had, of course, just given birth and wanted to see her baby, her baby girl. Asleep in the chair next to her was Arthur, his glasses pushed on top of his head and a Muggle mechanics book on his lap. He looked rather wretched, his hair a mess, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned, and his robes tossed over him like a thin blanket. Molly sighed, reaching over and putting a hand on her husband's to wake him.

Arthur jumped lightly, snorting and looking around. Molly smiled at him, suddenly feeling rather dirty; dried sweat perforating her nose. But Arthur's big, blue eyes smiled, and he got up, kissing her on the forehead and clasping her hand with his.

"She's a girl, Mol," he said quietly, his eyes looking shiny with tears. "I named her Ginevra – Ginevra Molly Weasley."

"It's a beautiful name, Arthur," Molly replied. "But I think I'd like to see her as well."

Arthur smiled and stood, but when he reached the door, he stopped and turned, an uncertain look on his face. "Molly, will you be ready to receive visitors in the next hour or so?"

Molly turned to him, her eyes frowning. "Yes. But...but why? Who?"

Arthur nodded. "Albus Dumbledore and Alastor Moody...and," at this, Arthur licked his lips and ran his hand through his hair nervously, "Duncan ."

Molly gasped. "Duncan ? Are you sure? Are you quite sure, Arthur?"

Arthur nodded, closing the door behind him. In a few minutes, he returned with their daughter Ginevra. Molly temporarily forgot all her questions as she caught first sight of her daughter. Arthur placed Ginevra in Molly's hands, smoothing the white birthing towel down so Ginevra's face was showing. Molly took Ginevra, astonished at how heavy she was, but smiled anyway.

"Five and a half kilograms, Mol," Arthur said, recognizing her dismay. "Bigger than Fred and George combined. I'm so proud of you, Molly."

Molly nodded dumbly, placing her hand on the forehead of Ginevra and marveling at her hair. It wasn't like the rest of her family's hair, more orange than deep red. Ginevra's hair was red like roses, red like blood. Then she noticed something, a strange mark on the back of Ginevra's head where her hair was still very light.

"The doctors don't know what it is," Arthur said, sitting on the edge of the bed lightly. "They think it is in the shape of some ancient rune, one we don't have records for. But given the Meeting you were caught in, it's probably Fire and Wind."

Molly looked up at Arthur. "Why is Duncan coming, Arthur? We haven't seen him in...in years. Not since I was twenty at least."

Arthur ran his hand through his hair again, looking to the door. "He is the head of the Department of Mysteries, Molly. This is what he does."

Molly frowned. The last time she'd seen Duncan he had wanted her to participate in some research, genetic-altering, scientific thing. He wanted her to be a guinea pig of some sort. He wanted to do something to her children; in Molly's book, that made him mad.

It had all started in school; he had been in her and Arthur's year, a Ravenclaw so smart he made most of the teachers look like fools. He had deduced her secret, her Dreamweaver's secret, and had questioned her mercilessly. She thought if she gave him a glimpse, inserted a dream here and there, changed one here and there, he'd leave her alone. But he'd become obsessed, and she'd told Arthur to keep him away from her. She and Arthur had been dating since they were fourth years and had liked each other since they were children living in the same neighborhood. But back then, Arthur was much more territorial of her and was known to beat up people on sight.

All that combined with the fact that she really didn't trust Duncan Welsh made her uneasy about seeing him again.

"Mol," Arthur said quietly.

He was looking at Ginevra, and Molly turned to look into her daughter's eyes for the first time. Molly smiled. They were brown, but not any brown, a metal, bronze color with gold flecks. Her red eyelashes fluttered delicately, and her pink lips opened slightly to breathe. Molly felt her eyes tearing. She had never seen a more beautiful baby in her life. She smiled and wiped away her tears.

"She's beautiful, Molly," Arthur said. "She's so beautiful."

"I know," Molly whispered. Molly let her mind reach Ginevra's, delving lightly into her daughter's young mind, sending happy feelings and dreams her way. Ginevra fell asleep, a content look on her face. "I know," Molly repeated, holding Ginevra closely.

She looked up at Arthur, who was taking off his fogging glasses and cleaning them, tears rolling down his cheeks. "Her eyes are so beautiful. They're like magnets. She'll be a real looker when she grows up."

Molly smiled, and would have said more, but there were loud voices coming from outside her room. A frown touched Arthur's lips, and he stood, reaching the door as it flew open. A man about his own height burst in, two other men following.

Molly recognized the first as Duncan Welsh. He hadn't changed much since she'd seen him nearly a decade ago. His black eyes and black hair still dark, but his hair had a few grays about the edges. He was broad, broader than Arthur, but a bit shorter. The next man Molly recognized as Alastor Moody, his black eyes flying about the scene wearily and taking a quick drink from his flask. After Alastor Moody was Albus Dumbledore. Molly smiled at him only, for his grandfatherly face and cheerful eyes went first to her and then her daughter.

"Arthur, Molly," Dumbledore said mildly. "How glorious to see you both! I see you have a new addition to your growing family; she's a beautiful little girl."

"Thank you, Headmaster," Arthur said; Molly could tell he felt a little uncomfortable.

"Weasley," Moody barked. "Good to see you, boy." He extended a hand, something he did for very few people, and shook Arthur's soundly. Arthur had been one of Moody's main Aurors when Moody still trained Aurors. They had remained good friends, and Arthur, the head of the Department of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, had gotten him off in a few accounts of enchanting a Muggle item for wizarding use.

"Arthur, Molly, pleasant to see you again," Duncan Welsh said, his voice the same as Molly remembered. It was deep and almost terrifying. She wanted to shiver, but she didn't. "A new bundle of joy to take home, I see."

"Duncan ," Arthur said stiffly, being a man and extending a hand.

Duncan looked at it and sneered. "Charmed, Arthur, charmed."

Molly clutched Ginevra closer to her, and an uncomfortable silence occurred, broken by Dumbledore. "Molly," Dumbledore said kindly, extending his arms, "do you mind?"

Molly shook her head, and Dumbledore took Ginevra, holding her paternally in his arms. She cooed lightly, grabbing at Dumbledore's silvery beard in her tiny, pudgy fingers. Dumbledore smiled at this, the whole sight making Molly and Arthur smile. Dumbledore put a hand on Ginevra's forehead, closing his eyes for a moment.

Then a smile appeared on his lined face. "You have a very beautiful daughter, Molly and Arthur, and a very powerful witch I think. I'd watch out for this one; she'll Show very early."

Moody snorted. "What else is new? Are you done, Albus?"

"Ahem!" a deep voice barked. "I'm not done." It was Duncan . "I would like to perform an experiment of my own."

"I'm sure you would," Arthur spat. "Too bad you won't come within three feet of Ginevra. I want you to leave, Duncan. I don't ever want to see you near her, not ever. That goes for all my children."

This earned a slow, evil smile from Duncan. "Well, if that's how you feel, I'm sorry, Arthur..."

"Don't worry," Arthur growled. "It is."

Dumbledore gave Molly back a happily, gurgling Ginevra, smiling at her and seemingly taking no interest in the words between Arthur and Duncan. Moody, however, took a keen interest in it, his eyes gauging and judging speculatively.

"Congratulations, Molly and Arthur," Dumbledore said. "I cannot wait for the day when young Ginevra attends Hogwarts."

"Thank you, Headmaster," Arthur said. "But we've had a long day, and Molly is very tired. If there's anything else, I'd love for you to come over for tea if you're not too busy. It would be our pleasure. And Alastor, I still have some paperwork I need to give you, so I'll see you on Monday."

Moody grunted, nodding and moving Duncan out of the room with his eyes, following quietly. Dumbledore smiled kindly and nodded to Molly and Arthur.

"Congratulations again, and I think I will stop by for some tea, next Wednesday perhaps?"

"That would be wonderful, Headmaster," Molly said, cradling Ginevra gently, Ginevra's little hands reaching up. "Goodbye."

Dumbledore closed the door, leaving Molly and Arthur to look over a very complacent Ginevra.

"Ginny," Arthur said softly, sitting on the bed again. "Ginny..."

Molly smiled. "Yes, we'll call her Ginny."

* * *

_Wait_

"What are you thinking, Alastor?"

A sigh. "She's powerful all right. Weasley and Molly probably couldn't feel it because they'd become accustomed to it. But the elemental power in that room went off the Benson's Scale."

"We've been having problems with that scale though. It should have picked up the Meeting days and days before it did, especially one that powerful. It's a wonder indeed that Molly lived, Molly and the baby."

"Albus, we didn't know that one was coming. There was no way; it was completely spontaneous. It happens sometimes."

"I know, Alastor, I know."

"What did you feel in her? Does she have the gift?"

"Does she have the gift? Yes, she has the gift. It is stronger than Molly's, stronger than Eva's even. She will cause problems in Hogwarts; I can feel it already."

"An Elemental at Hogwarts. An Elemental and Dreamweaver. Has that ever happened before, Albus?"

"We've had a few Elementals. Minerva, if you remember, is a child of Fire. Her mother was raped by a Fire Spirit. And Narcissa Black – well, Malfoy now – she is a pure Wind Elemental."

"I thought she was just part Veela."

"No, Wind Elemental."

"I wondered why that bastard Lucius Malfoy would choose a Ravenclaw as a wife. The Malfoys were always so Slytherin based. I wonder how he found out."

"She saved his life, Alastor. She saved his life using her gift. But in answer to your other question, no, we've never had an Elemental Dreamweaver, though we've had Dreamweavers, most of them Tuckers, Molly's mother's line."

A silence.

"Then how will you deal with her, Albus?"

Another silence.

"When the time comes, I think I will know."

A snort. "Well, isn't that handy? What are we going to do about Duncan Welsh then? You saw the way he looked at the girl. She'll be in danger of him for the rest of her life."

A sigh. "We will put up very powerful charms and barriers, Alastor. Flitwick will help. We will protect her as best we can. But I fear she is not only in danger from Duncan Welsh. I fear the worst of her dangers are not yet realized."

"Voldemort."

"Yes."

"But, he's dead."

"You should know better than that, Alastor."

"The Potter boy did a rather convincing job then. We couldn't find a trace of the bastard."

A nod. "I rather suspected you wouldn't."

"So now what?"

A lemon drop plucked from a bowl. "We'll wait."


	2. The Setting of the Stage

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER TWO:**

**The Setting of the Stage**

* * *

_Matchmaker, Matchmakerº_

A man stood with his black cloak flying behind him. The clouds in the distance were dark – dark and evil, as though they themselves were plotting. A streak of tinted lightning flashed across the sky, the light illuminating the cliffs, wind and water beating the weatherworn precipice.

The man turned, his face shadowed by this black hood, and he began walking straight ahead. His hands could be seen, spindly and weak, but dangerous and refined. They were pale, nails long and neat, but all in all, evil in appearance. In one there was a black wand, bright, polished lovingly. Behind him the weather roared, and it seemed as though he had caused it, and it made him happy.

"M – master," a stuttering voice said. A squat, short man whimpered and crawled to the dark man on his knees. "What now, Master?"

"Have you found her?" The voice of the man was high, not effeminate, just high. It held indifference and disdain, but at the same time it carried an air of power and control. It was the voice of villains that educated men grudgingly respected, but most men feared.

"Yes, master," the short man said, reaching for the dark man's gown and kissing it reverently.

"Well?"

"She is an Elemental; Welsh has confirmed it."

"Welsh..." the dark man said musingly, one cruel hand going to his chin. "And Welsh – Duncan Welsh, is he loyal?"

"He has always been loyal," simpered the smaller man.

"As loyal as you, Wormtail?"

"No one is more loyal than I, master!" It came in a fearful squeal. Wormtail cowered and kissed the booted feet of his master as a servant would.

"I know," the man replied. "I know, Wormtail. And you would never lie to me."

"Never!"

"Then tell me, can we retrieve her? I need her soon." The voice of the man sounded reasonable.

But the servant, Wormtail, stopped. "She goes to Hogwarts, Master. The eye of Dumbledore reaches as long as his arm."

A pause. "She is a student there, or a teacher?"

"A – a student, Master," cowered Wormtail. "A fifth year. She is – is the s-same one that carried your soul three years ago."

The man seemed to smile. "Is that so? Well then she truly is worthy to bear my heir. Wormtail," the man said, looking out at the approaching storm, "I want you to bring me a picture of this girl and tell me everything you know about her. She is too young yet, but in another year she will be the perfect age. She will bear my child, my heir. Go now, Wormtail, and don't disappoint me."

"I would never, master!" whined the servant.

"I know," replied the man's master. "And do you know how I know, Wormtail?"

"N-n-no, my lord," came the nervous reply of Wormtail.

"This, Wormtail, is how I know."

Slowly, as though he were moving though water, the dark master of Wormtail reached into his black robe and fingered his wand with care.

"This, my dear Wormtail, is how I know.

"CRUCIO!"

* * *

_She That Dreams Again_

Ginny woke with a start, sweat plastering her crimson hair to her forehead and making her bed seem like a sauna. How did it get so hot in here? She rolled out of bed, her thin shirt and short pajama shorts clinging to her like a second skin in the moist air. It was summer; it was to be expected. She wished she could take a quick dip in the waterhole round the back of her house.

Sighing, she stood and cracked her back. She'd slept oddly again, her dreams, as always, troubled. She couldn't clearly remember the dream this time, only that it was bad, really bad. It was the same two people she was dreaming about. One was tall and dark, radiating a black aura. The other was short and sort of graying around the edges, as though his will to live was in the other, darker one. It always ended with the graying one tortured.

Ginny shivered in spite of the heat, opening her door and cursing the floorboards for creaking so loudly. She made her way down the stairs. She looked out the window once she got to the kitchen, finding it was still the dead of night. The moon had set, and the stars were bright in the sky; it would be a clear morning, she could tell.

She was cooled a little by the glass of water she got for herself, but she had to walk around a little to stop sweating so heavily. She sighed again, finally settling on the couch and throwing a light blanket over her feet. She stared into the fireplace, dark and sooty, though an ember appeared when she looked at it again.

Soon she heard the creaking of the stairs, signaling her mother, an early riser herself, was up. Ginny frowned. Her mother didn't rise at three thirty in the morning, though. To her surprise, it was Charlie, her older brother. He was staying at the Burrow for the weekend, taking a bit of time off work in the Hebrides Mountains. He smiled at her, yawning and stretching out his Gryffindor Quidditch shirt as he did so.

"Hi, Gin, what are you doing up?" he said in a groggy voice.

"I was having dreams again," Ginny replied, patting a place right next to her.

Charlie plopped down, started a fire in the fireplace, and turned to her. "Dreams, eh? You should go to Mum; she always made my bad dreams go away."

"She usually makes mine go away as well. But, I don't like asking her anymore; I haven't since after first year..."

Ginny trailed off, shifting uncomfortably. Charlie understood though and changed the topic. "So, when are you going to come to the Hebrides with me. I want someone's approval on Jillian before I tell Mum I'm going to marry her."

"Oh, you got up the courage, then?" Ginny said, smiling and setting down her water on the table.

Charlie cringed. "Oh, yeah. I'll have to do that, won't I?"

Ginny gave him the 'duh' look, and one eyebrow rose. "I think that would be a good start, Charlie."

"Are you looking forward to school, then?" he said, changing the conversation again.

Ginny shrugged. "Not really. I mean, every year is the same. This fourth year was like third year, and I suppose fifth year will be like forth year."

"At least you have fun O.W.L.s to look forward to," Charlie said comfortingly.

"Fun and O.W.L.s should never be used in the same sentence, Charlie," Ginny said seriously. "But if you must know, I was thinking about joining the school newspaper this year. I was going to do a dream interpretation section on account of my good marks in Divination...or at least in that part of Divination."

"Well, you like writing, and dream interpretation seems to be your thing. Go for it," Charlie said. "But right now, I'm hungry, so fix me something."

Ginny rolled her eyes, throwing the blanket at Charlie as she got up and went to the kitchen.

Ginny sat next to her school trunk. It was full of her clothes and books, quills and papers, and of course, her new diary. She sighed. It was a secret from her parents; they wouldn't like it if they knew she had one. She hadn't been allowed ever since her first year. But as it turned out, she really did need to keep a diary, so in her third year, she started writing in one again. It made her feel calm and helped her deal with her feelings. Plus, it organized her day for her, something she desperately needed.

Sighing again, she closed the trunk, putting her wand in the back pocket of her jeans as she stood. Straightening her plain, black shirt, she stood in front of her mirror, brushing back her crimson hair into a ponytail, then putting it down again. She needed to cut it, at least a little. It had grown rather long, reaching her bellybutton. Performing a simple charm, she curled the ends. Then she pointed her wand at her trunk, levitating it down stairs behind her.

"Gin! Hurry up!"

It was her brother, anxious to get to the train station. He hadn't been able to see Hermione, his girlfriend, or Harry, his best friend, all summer, on account of being with Bill in Egypt most of the time. Ginny was glad she didn't have to go to Egypt; she hated it there. They didn't even let her see the haunted tombs.

So Ron, toast stuffed in his mouth, pushed her ahead of him to the fireplace, leaving her to get his trunk from his room.

"You heard what Charlie said, Molly. You have to tell her soon."

It was her father.

"I know, Arthur. I'm just saying, if she needed help, if she even assumed something, then it would be the time," her mother replied in an exasperated voice.

"Well, _I'm_ just saying it's about the time for her to be told. You're going to need to, and soon. Otherwise, she'll have a lot of problems in the next few months."

"I know what I'm doing, Arthur," snapped her mother.

"And you do have a lot to explain..."

"I _KNOW_, Arthur!"

The voices were coming closer, and Ginny's mother entered the room with her father right behind her. Ginny's mother didn't look too happy, her arms crossed and jaw clenched. But as soon as she saw Ginny, her expression changed. Ginny's father ran a hand through his hair before flashing a smile Ginny's way.

"Ginny," her mother said in a false cheery voice. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes, Mum," Ginny replied simply.

Her mother looked at her oddly for a moment then turned to Ginny's father. "I'll see you when I get back home, Arthur. Now where is that boy? Ron! We're leaving!"

As Ron took the stairs three at a time (Ginny could tell because of the huge clunking noise), she kissed her father goodbye. He looked rather pale that day, worried perhaps. Ginny wished she knew what her parents were talking about. She was almost sure it was about her.

But before she could ask, her brother came down the stairs, and they were all Flooed to Diagon Alley. Her mother walked briskly, talking only when she was asked something. Ron kept jabbering about something or other; Ginny wasn't really listening.

"Okay," her mother said, once they reached the station. "I've got a few Sickles for your lunch; I didn't have time to make one this year. I want a letter when you get settled in. I love you both; now get going, or you'll be late."

Ron hugged his mother quickly, planting a kiss in her cheek before dashing off to a beaconing Hermione and Harry. Just as Ginny was about to do the same, for she'd seen Colin, her mother grabbed her hand, placing an odd, circular object in it. Ginny looked down at it. It was a wooden circle, leathery strings creating a sort of spider's web in the middle. A bright, reddish jewel was in the center, apparently suspended by a few strings.

"It's called a dream catcher, Ginny," her mother said quietly. Ginny's eyes went to her mother's serious ones, and her mother continued. "The Native American witches and wizards made them. They capture the bad dreams, letting only the good ones through. But this dream catcher is special; your Grandma Eva made this one. It captures all dreams. When you put your wand on that center ruby, you can see any dream it has captured."

"How'd you know I'd been having dreams?" Ginny asked quietly. The train whistled, signaling the end of boarding.

Her mother only smiled. "Run now or you're going to miss the Express. I love you, Ginny!"

Ginny kissed her mother, hanging onto the hug a moment longer than needed, and rushed off to the train. She got on just as it began to leave; she was the last before the Hufflepuff prefect closed the door. She clutched a stitch in her side and opened an empty compartment. Smiling, she took her diary out of her bag and selected a quill from her collection.

"Ginny?"

It was Colin Creevey, her boyfriend since fourth year. He poked his head in the compartment, shooing his brother Dennis away, and flopped down next to her. Ginny kissed him and took hold of his hand. Then he pulled away, scooting back a few inches.

"Ginny," he said, his brown eyes serious. "I wanted to talk to you, before anyone else did."

"Okay," Ginny said, smiling and looking at him doubtfully. "What about?"

He took a deep breath, exhaled, and said very quickly, "Iwannabreakup."

Ginny flinched and frowned. "Huh?"

"I want to break up," he swallowed, "with you."

Ginny crossed her arms. "Well, that's an opener for you."

"Ginny, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but –"

"No." Ginny looked out the window. "I understand."

Colin fell silent. He looked contemplative, almost. Then he turned to her. "Don't you even want to know why?"

Still gazing out the window, "Not particularly," she said in an uninterested voice.

Colin was silent again. "_You see!_ That's –" He cut off, looking at her with angry eyes and standing in the compartment. "That's the exact reason I'm breaking up with you! You don't even care."

Ginny looked at him harshly. "I do too! Sorry if I'm not sleeping well, I'm a little tired, and listening to you whine like a baby doesn't inspire much hope in the relationship, anyway."

Colin's eyes became a bit more sympathetic, and he sat opposite from her. He was one of the few people Ginny had actually told about her dreams. Besides her mother and Charlie, Colin was the only one who knew. He knew every grisly detail, all the way to the puking in the morning and the days and days without sleep.

"How bad is it?" he asked sympathetically. "When was the last time you slept?"

Ginny sighed. "Last week Monday. I woke up from one of the dreams with the two men, and I haven't been able to sleep since."

"Gods, Gin," Colin said quietly, looking slightly ashamed of himself. "If I'd known that I'd've never...I wouldn't've...I'm so sorry."

Ginny smiled slightly. "You know what? Don't be. I don't think it was working out. Besides, I think I'd rather have you for a friend for now."

Colin looked at her. "Really? Is that how you feel, Gin?"

Ginny looked at him sadly. "Colin, you're a great guy, and you're going to be a great boyfriend to some lucky girl and a husband to an even luckier one. But I really don't think it's going to be me. I have too many problems; my life is messed up. I don't want to drag you with me. Because you know what? You're that type of great guy that would go down with me, and I don't want that for you. You don't want that for you, Colin."

Colin was quiet for a little while. "Ginny, I feel bad about this, you know. I feel like I'm deserting you."

"No, Colin, no. You're not deserting me. I still want you to be my friend. I mean, who will pose for your pictures if not me?" She gave him a killer smile, winking at him.

"You will still? I was going to ask...well, I was going to ask Lavender or Parvati, but they don't have as good bodies as you," Colin said, blushing.

Ginny understood. Colin had asked her at the end of last year, as a favor, if he could take a few pictures of her, nude, for his art. He was becoming a good artist, Dean Thomas helping him along. They were pretty good friends, despite the age difference, and Dean helped Colin a lot. But Dean had said that for him to progress correctly with his paintings and photograph sketches, he needed to have a better idea how the human body looked. That was why Colin had asked Ginny. On top of being his girlfriend, she was also rather developed for her age, her puberty ending at the end of fourth year. Ginny figured it was her family genes, for she'd always matured quickly.

"I mean," he continued nervously, "you wouldn't feel uncomfortable? I'm not your boyfriend anymore, just your friend."

Ginny looked at him with a cocked head. "Colin, it's for art. And plus, what are friends for?"

"Thanks, Gin," Colin said, leaning over and kissing her on the cheek briefly. "I have to go and tell Dean. He didn't really want to use Lavender or Parvati either, and I'm afraid he's going to ask them, thoroughly humiliating himself."

"All right, Colin," Ginny said. He left the compartment, saluting as he left.

Ginny smiled, turning to the window. It was nearly lunch; the sun was high in the sky. Taking out her diary, still clean from all words, she looked at the empty page apprehensively. It had been a long time...

It had been since first year. All that time ago. All those memories that resurfaced in her dreams. All those moments she never could eradicate from her memory, all those days of torture.

Ginny sighed, looking at her blank paper. Then she put the quill to the empty parchment and began to scrawl in her elegant hand.

September 1, 1997

Another school year. Another Quidditch season. Another year of Potions. Another eternity of solidarity where I find myself writing my worries away. Another year of prickling sensations that migrate down my back when he looks too long. Another series of painful emotions and long nights crying. Another year in which all I want is summer from the first day to the last train ride home.

It's all just another year. So fifth year, like forth and third and all the years that came prior, should all be the same.

Start of term can't come soon enough. I feel like I just got off the train, and my family greeted me lovingly. I feel like I just spread my wings, waiting for the summer to hang thickly over my head and sunburn my nose. I didn't go out much...

* * *

_It Never...It Hurts to Ask_

Ginny sat at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. The Sorting had just ended, and food was served. Colin sat next to her, talking to Dean adamantly about their art class the next day, and it reminded Ginny of a class of her own. She was already taking the writing class the school provided as an extra-curricular activity; sometimes even Dumbledore came and looked in on the work. She would have to talk to McGonagall about joining the newspaper, promoting her idea of a dream interpretation column.

Ginny poked her peas around her plate slowly, not wanting to eat; it was all too starchy or gross. She didn't care; she wasn't hungry. Colin elbowed her accidentally, apologizing quickly before going back to talking to Dean. Ginny sighed, deciding she should at least return to writing in her diary. Standing, she left the Hall, unconscious of the eyes that followed her.

Only about ten meters from the doors, a voice stopped her, and stop her, it did.

"Ginny!"

It was Harry; she could tell already. She'd avoided him, successfully, for the past few years. Her crush (unfortunate and unfounded as it was) had eventually dissipated, returning to its natural state as a respect for the boy who had defeated Voldemort so many times. But sometimes, sometimes when she felt really lonely, she remembered him and smiled, thinking how nice it was to have a crush on some boy, however cute he was. Upon reflection, Harry was probably what drove her to Colin. Her obsession with getting over her obsession had made her throw herself at Colin. She was glad Colin was her friend now, not her boyfriend. They made much better friends.

So Ginny stopped, turning around with question in her eyes. "Hullo, Harry."

"Hullo, Ginny," Harry said, panting a bit as he came to a halt in front of her. "Where are you going?"

Ginny smiled mildly. "Just back to the common room. The noise was getting to me, and I didn't feel much like eating."

"Oh," Harry said. "Well, I was wondering..." He trailed off, running his fingers though his hair, looking slightly nervous. "I was wondering if you wanted to come to Hogsmeade with me...I mean, if you wanted. And I understand if you don't, I mean, I heard you and Colin broke up...and I'd been wanting to ask you out for a while..."

Ginny froze temporarily, only semi-conscious that her mouth was open. She closed it quickly and shook her head. "Oh," she said dumbly. "I, ah, Harry, I mean...are you sure?"

He smiled awkwardly. "Well, I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't sure," he said.

"That's not what I mean," Ginny said quickly. Damn, but this was awkward! She didn't like Harry, not really anyway. And though he was nice, she didn't really want to go out with him. He didn't inspire her like that anymore. "I mean, maybe in a little while. Colin and I were serious, and I'm still a little hurt that he ended the relationship."

Harry's face darkened. "Was he – was he inappropriate with you, Ginny?"

Ginny's eyes widened, and she shook her head adamantly. "No! Not ever, Harry! I just meant, we were close, and it's going to take a while for me to deal with us being friends again."

"Oh," Harry said simply. Then, running his fingers though his hair again, "I'll see you around, okay, Ginny?"

Ginny nodded, smiling encouragingly, and turned around, walking blindly around a corner and straight down a deserted hall. She crossed her arms, walking, but not really caring where, letting her feet carry her. Somewhere along the road, she began mumbling to herself.

"Why now? I mean, I haven't done anything. Why me? He never liked me, or even showed any interest. Maybe it is because Cho is going out with Terry Boot. That has to be it. I mean, she's in seventh year, and she still doesn't like Harry back.

"Oh, gods, why now?" She stuck her hands in her pockets. Her fingers found something, and she pulled it out. It was the dream catcher. "And what am I supposed to do with this thing? Sleep with it? How does Mum know I'm dreaming again? Besides the fact that she knows everything, I mean.

"She gave me this...she said Grandma Eva made it. That's her mum. I remember hearing about her. She was the one that went to America and had all the talks with the Indians that lived there.

"I suppose I just don't understand it all. I could try it out, I suppose. She said to put my wand on the ruby. I have to dream first; that means sleep. I'll ask for some potion from Pomfrey tomorrow.

"Ick, classes start tomorrow. I don't want to..." but she trailed off as she hit a dead end.

Ginny frowned. The castle didn't have dead ends. The castle had so many secrets she doubted Dumbledore the All-knowing, Omniscient Deity knew them all. But then again, maybe he did. Ginny put her hand on the wall experimentally. It didn't feel like it had any special charms on it. But as soon as her hand left the stone, in shiny reddish letters, the words "Inverted Tower " appeared on the wall.

"Inverted Tower?" Ginny questioned quietly.

The metallic red letters had a life of their own it seemed, for as soon as she asked, a step by step process of getting in appeared. Ginny laughed. Trust this castle to have something so stupid...

"Step one: Take out wand." Ginny took out her wand.

"Step two: Touch wand to highlighted brick." Ginny touched her wand to the highlighted brick.

"Step three: Say the password clearly. Note: Password is 'solitary,' unless changed." So Ginny said "solitary," and the bricks re-arranged themselves to permit her by.

"Thank you for visiting Inverted Tower, please come back soon."

Ginny started at the words written on the opposite wall, frowning and looking back at the wall as it closed silently. She glanced around. It was a rather plain room. There were four large windows, one pointing to the North, one South, etc. At each window there was a seat, padded and colored differently. The northern seat was red; the southern green, the eastern blue, and the western yellow. It dawned on Ginny that those were the house colors. She sat on the red one, Ginny not being the one to break tradition and sit in the green seat, per se.

Ginny gazed out the window, seeing the lake in all its moonlit glory. She frowned; the lake wasn't to the north. Shaking her head, Ginny stood, dusting off her robes, though the room was clean. She would have to write about this place. If she could ever get back, she would have to explore it more thoroughly.

Going back to the wall between the South and East Windows, she tapped her wand on the wall, hoping it was how she could get out. To her surprise, more red writing appeared on the wall.

"Do you wish to return to Inverted Tower ?

"_YES_ or_ NO. _

"Note: Touch tip of wand on the answer you wish to select."

Ginny giggled a little, touching her wand to "_YES_."

"Select correct house.

"_GRYFFINDOR _or _HUFFLEPUFF _or_ RAVENCLAW _or _SLYTHERIN_.

"Note: If house is not selected properly, you will not be able to enter tower from your private passageway."

Ginny selected "_GRYFFINDOR_" dutifully.

The questions proceeded to ask what year she was, what bed in her room she slept in, what her favorite class was, what her least favorite class was, who was favored to win the house cup that year, what her favorite food and color were, who she would never like to see in the tower, who she wouldn't mind meeting, if she had a preference of seeing night or day when she entered the tower, and several other almost frivolous questions such as temperature, weather conditions, etc. for the next fifteen minutes until she just wanted to get out. Then it asked her to rate the service of the tower, and she was forced to give it an eight because of the length the questions had taken. The tower thanked her, and the door opened to her dorm room, a fact which surprised her at first, but then she remembered she had supplied her room and bed.

Sighing, Ginny flung herself on the bed, very happy she was the only person in her dorm. Her previous dorm mate, Jessica Forrester, had been made a prefect because she was so smart and her dorms were with the other prefects. Hermione had been made a prefect in her fifth year because she was smart, too. Ginny took her diary out and began to write.

* * *

_A Diary of the Silent Kind_

September 1, 1997

Another school year. Another Quidditch season. Another year of Potions. Another eternity of solidarity where if find myself writing my worries away. Another year prickling sensations that migrate down my back when he looks too long. Another series of painful emotions and long nights crying. Another year in which all I want is summer from the first day to the last train ride home.

Start of term can't come soon enough. I feel like I just got off the train, and my family greeted me lovingly. I feel like I just spread my wings, waiting for the summer to hang thickly over my head and sunburn my nose. I didn't go out much. No family vacation, I didn't feel like it. Usually my family does something, but I wasn't up to it this year; I faked sick. I felt bad, but my parents left me for France anyway, telling the babysitter to make sure I drank plenty of liquids and got a lot of rest. My brother went to Egypt.

I suppose it's nice to know they worry. Of course, it could be the fact that Death Eater attacks are growing rare, and the house is quadruple charmed and protected. Upon reflection, it probably is that. Their little girl's growing up. Can't imagine what my mum will do without me.

Though my cousins on my mother's side visited, some sort of family reunion thing. It wasn't too exciting. My perverted cousin hit on my brother's friend. He's so sick. I really hate him. He's the type of boy that would touch you weird when you were a little kid and always try to kiss you. He goes to Eton...or went there until he was kicked out for inappropriate student behavior. He's a real arse.

Then I got my cheeks pinched by my aunt, an uncomfortable reminder I'm still just fifteen. Get this, my aunt comes up to me, tells me how much I've grown, and then proceeds to get me to tell her who my boyfriend is.

Oh, and for my birthday, I got a doll. A doll. Yes, a doll. Were I to look at it five minutes, days, or years from now, it would still be a doll. Who gives a fifteen-year-old a doll? Oh, well, my mother. Merlin, Mab, and Circe! A doll.

Bah! Got to go; no sense in staying up all night obsessing over how I'm still a child and will be so until I'm on my deathbed.

September 3, 1997

First day I had Potions was today. I swear Snape hates me more than any one person on this planet, perhaps with the exception of Harry Potter, that is. He gave me detention already. It's not my fault if my ditzy tablemate spills Sterilizing Solution all over the floor and then steps in it, tracking it halfway across the classroom and then passing out from the noxious fumes, taking half the class with her. To give me detention, okay. But to accuse me of trying to sabotage my own classmates... Why would I try to sabotage my own house? I think he may have a genetic disposition to hate me. It's as if he lives to torment me. I think a lot of people believe that.

At least practices are starting again. I watched the opening practice. I think our team has a good chance to win this year, really I do. After Slytherin won last year, I think we have a chance, especially because those beastly seventh years are gone. Really, I think they were on the drug Muggles call steroids. They enhance strength, agility, and speed. Why it's done, I'll never know, but it is.

I didn't make the team this year; I never do. I've tried out ever since I've been in fourth year. I suppose it's never happening. At least I have my class every Friday; I don't know what I'd do with out it. Now that Caitlin Macduff is gone, I can finally relax. She really got on my nerves, always complaining and whining, and I never want to read anything from her ever again. I want to kill myself even more than usual when I do. The headmaster still asks for my work. I always tell him it's not finished, or not ready, or really rotten. I don't really think it's rotten; I just don't want anyone to read it.

There's something very intimate about poetry, something very primal, romantic. Like did you know in ancient Japanese society, men would write poetry to women they admired and had feelings for? If the woman responded, it meant she liked him. Throughout the relationship, they would send each other poetry. It became a contest to see who could be the most original or creative. I think that's terribly romantic. I rather don't think, however, that anyone would send me a poem...not that I want their bloody poetry anyway...

Oh, for the love of Merlin, I digress again.

I read this wonderful book the other day. It was Muggle, but it touched me on a level wizard books never have. It was called _The Catcher in the Rye_ by J. D. Salinger. There was just something human about it. It reminded me about all the phonies and fakes in the world. Really everyone is a fake and a phony if you think about it. Everyone puts on a front; everyone masks themselves when they go out in public, even me...especially me. It made me think; it really did. Do people even know themselves? I mean, are they just the mask, or is there something behind them? I can name about thirty people off the top of my mind who are fake. Hermione Granger, Hannah Abbott, Parvati Patil, Pansy Parkinson...the list can go on.

I think I'd like to meet a real person. I mean a _REAL_ person, the type that doesn't need to wear a mask. Or at least a person who won't wear one around me. Maybe I won't need to wear one either.

September 6, 1997

Finally! The weekend. Not like I'll have a life, I've already got a ton of homework! I'll never get out of the common room. McGonagall threw a three scroll essay at us about changing large animals into complex, inanimate objects. Three bloody scrolls! I suppose I can't complain. Transfiguration really isn't my class. I'm rather partial to...come to think of it I'm not really good at any class. I pretty much just have my notebook.

Writing is my only true passion, I think. I would rather spend my life in a small, unkempt cottage with dust on the surfaces and bills a meter high and write than be rich and famous and live in an outrageously expensive home, having people wait on me hand and foot.

Merlin! My life is so pathetic! I would jump off this tower right now if I wasn't too chicken. Yeah, I'm scared of dying. But truthfully, who isn't? Who would want to die? It sounds rather painful and useless to me to kill yourself. Slitting my wrists would cause me to look at blood, something I'm not fond of, and jumping would, while I do like heights, cause me to hit the ground at some time, causing me to become rather ugly.

I like the Astronomy Tower because it is high. I like to stand on the edge and let the wind whip around me. I can't explain it; I've always loved heights. I especially like the tower at night, when the stars are out, and the wind almost smells different.

I really like the stars. At home, I stay up really late and wait for the moon to set. After that happens, the stars become clearer, and the Milky Way is bright and beautiful. All my worries just fly away and drown in the dark of night, and everything feels right. Then my mother comes, tells me I'm up too late, I've got chores in the morning, and my moment of nostalgia is ruined for the chance to perform slave labor for a woman without a creative bone in her body, much less sympathy for it. I go in my room and write until the sun comes up. A few hours later, my mother comes to wake me up, and I find I've drooled embarrassingly on my journal and clean it up with a quick (but illegal) spell and de-gnome the garden or something.

That's another thing I like, gardens. I don't know why. I think it is because they have something I never do – _life_ – and a will to grow and live. I mean, I'm alive and everything, but half the time, I wonder if it's not all some dream and I'll wake up to the horrifying reality that no one cares or wants to care and all we have to look forward to in life is death and even that is disappointing. I wonder if I'll just stop one day, lay down my wand and rebel, running away to some deserted forest lodge with a guy named Spike, a bottle of vodka in my left hand and some Ritz crackers in my right.

I won't though. I'm too scared to do anything that radical. What would Mum and Dad think? Who cares?

* * *

_Draco – The Really Evil One_

Draco put down the book. He hadn't meant to read it; it was just sort of there. But he figured when someone left a plain-covered brown book with inconspicuous ink stains on the cover and "Diary" written in the dead center, they deserved to have it read. He honestly didn't care that much, but he'd been drawn in. No, he'd been captivated, and those were only the few first entries. There were only two more for that year. He rushed to read them, a spell over his mind, making him read the tome greedily.

It had all started when he'd gotten lost. Yes, Slytherin prefect lost. He figured if he had the authority, he might as well use and abuse it; otherwise, it would go to waste. So he pinned on his badge, sneered at a couple of passing second year Hufflepuffs, and went exploring, though its formal name was "monitoring." Filch didn't even bother him in the dead of night, not even at two in the morning when every living and sane creature was asleep and dreaming sweet dreams of whatever the common folk dreamed of. He could wander freely, claiming to be hunting for rule breaking Gryffindors or sneaky Ravenclaws sliding away to the library for a bit of extra study. He didn't usually catch the Ravenclaws, but the Gryffindors made enough noise to wake the dead.

That had been when he'd found the tower. Coincidentally, he'd been in the dungeons, just coming back from deducting twenty points from a fifth year Gryffindor with thoughts about the kitchens when he got...misplaced. He wasn't lost. He had not become lost. He was merely...taking the scenic route. The route which led him down seventeen flights of stairs, up five, down two more, then around ten lefts and a right, through a suspicious looking portrait, and over a bridge with water running under it and fish jumping playfully in the current.

But he found the view from the tower was a stunning one, especially through the South Window which showcased the Forbidden Forest in all its ungodliness. The North Window showed him the lake, which was odd because the lake should have been by the forest, and through the East Window, he could see the school from about five kilometers away. Draco had no doubt that this was a magic room. How anyone could find it more than once to keep a diary in there was beyond him.

But once he thought about it, it was probably one of the safest places to keep one. In a dormitory, it could be read my nosy roommates (though he'd not have that problem), and in a locked book, it just had to be charmed open. In a nearly-impossible-to-find tower underground was the best option for it. Unless you wanted to keep it with the headmaster, though that would be silly.

What Draco didn't understand was the need for all the privacy. The diary didn't have any particularly juicy parts in it, yet at least. It didn't even have any names in it. It wasn't signed, and it wasn't salutated. It just had a date at the top of each page, scrolled in a different color than the text.

Even the handwriting wasn't original. It appeared to be off a dictating quill, like something a reporter would carry. Completely utilitarian handwriting. All in black. All perfectly spaced, spelled, and punctuated. All the same.

It was the actual context that jumped at him. Whoever it was, and it was a girl, was brutally honest about life. She was harsh and truthful with realistic commentary and insightful quotes. It spoke to him, even if his life wasn't like hers. She had a way with words, a way with the meaning of them, and a way of looking at the world. He didn't know where she was going to go next, or what she was going to say.

Immediately after he read the first sentence he was hooked, addicted. He wanted more, but after the next few entries, it was blank, all of it. She must have her other diary somewhere else, hidden most likely, somewhere no one would find it. He figured she was a very secretive person, probably quiet.

Then it hit him. Who was she?

Her text left little clues, she wrote about no specific events, and the way she described herself was pretty mainstream. She had a family, was probably pureblood, or at least she used Muggle, not "we," when she spoke. He couldn't tell her house, though it couldn't possibly be Slytherin because she said Snape hated her. She could be a Ravenclaw; she claimed to not be an expert at school, but Ravenclaws were probably good writers, and she was a fantastic one. It was possible she was a Hufflepuff, but she had a bit too much spark in her for that, and Hufflepuffs weren't nearly as brutally honest. A Gryffindor probably; she was outspoken but claimed to be afraid of a lot of things, and she didn't sound particularly brave or rash. She was definitely introverted, but not on paper.

That left about a dozen or so fifth years to pick from, and she was a fifth year, she said so.

But then it came to Draco, did he really want to know?

Hypothetically speaking, what would he do if he found out who the author of the diary was? "Hi, I'm Draco Malfoy, you know, the really evil one. Loved the diary; have a nice day!"

No, he couldn't go around like that. But that didn't mean he would stop reading the diary, not ever. He felt truth in her words, and truth was something he valued very much. Living in Slytherin had taught him there were three important parts of life: living, truth, and success. And this woman, whoever she was, spoke the unadulterated truth. Just in those few pages, he had realized that.

So did he want to know her?

No.

Placing the book where he found it, on the seat by the North window, he left.

* * *

_The Rules for Making Friends, Part 1_

Continuing the six year tradition, Draco Malfoy glared across the Great Hall at Harry Potter and the Dream Team. They were so blithely unaware of everything going on around them it was disgusting. How could four people be so blissfully oblivious to everything? But the view wasn't bad. Truth be told, he was fascinated. Emotion in general fascinated him. Just that fact that they lived such a multifaceted lifestyle of happiness, sadness, joy, depression, and honor captured his attention. It was hard not to see their flamboyant tendencies.

Take Weasley for instance. Wild red hair and quick to anger, he was the best friend one minute and a raging volcano the next. And the brilliant Hermione Granger, the Mudblood that was quite possibly the most powerful witch in a century. After winding down a bit, she had become practically wild. Well, wild compared to what she was like. She was a prefect and had become beautiful in her own merit. She had the tendency to act like a younger and prettier McGonagall at times, but on occasion you could catch her snogging her longtime boyfriend Weasley like a normal girl.

"Draco," a voice said, calling him back to reality. "Draco, doll? Is anyone in there?"

Sneering, he turned to the voice. Great...Pansy.

Pansy. Parkinson. _His_ long-time girlfriend. Gods, how he loathed that woman. The slut and he were the things Slytherin families were made of. Pretty and ditzy mother, evil and influential father, then of course bratty, awful Spawn of Satan children.

"Yes, Pansy?"

"Draco, doll, you look ill. Is there anything wrong?" Pansy said in her 'would-you-like-to-come-up-in-my-room-later-this-evening-and-screw' voice. He hated that voice, sticky sweet with promise of pleasure. Sure, Pansy was pretty…pretty slutty. In Draco's opinion, she was too short, too curvy, too top-heavy, too blonde, and too stupid to be a decent lover. Draco needed a bit more substance than that if he was really going to enjoy himself. That was why he didn't like his father's whores. They were just that...whores.

"There's nothing wrong at all, Pansy," Draco replied dryly. "What would make you think that?"

"You look like you need to be distracted. You're too serious, Draco, dear," she said in her honey voice.

Draco had to force himself not to roll his eyes in disgust. "I've just remembered a prior commitment," he said in a transparent voice. Not even acknowledging them, Draco left, and Crabbe and Goyle followed him out of the Great Hall.

_Bloody shadows,_ he thought to himself as he trudged down the halls, students fleeing before him. Not only was he a Malfoy with a superiority complex, he was a prefect, something he was very proud of.

Gathering his bag from his room (_Thank Merlin and all that's holy I don't have to share with those idiots and that bloody poof Zabini_), Draco made his way to transfiguration. Unhappy, he had to spend a whole class period with the Merlin-awful Gryffindors and Professor McGonagall. She really hated him, not that she would ever show it. Gryffindors were fair and honest, not partial like Slytherin. Draco asserted his dominance by walking purposefully down the hall, people dashing around him like mad so as to not get in his way. He smirked at their fetal behavior; they were just like mice, scampering out of his say, out of the way of the snake.

A flash of red and something bumped into him hard. Whoever it was fell on the ground, and all their papers flew everywhere. Looking up, he came face to face with a red-haired, pale-skinned, full-lipped Weasley. There was no doubt; the hair and eyes gave it away.

"Watch where you're going!" she said angrily, not even looking up. Then she tilted her head to the side and looked at him angrily, whipping out her wand as she glared. At first he thought she might hex him, but with a flick of her wrist, all her papers were in her arms. Stuffing them in her bags, she rolled her eyes at his smirk and walked off.

Draco stood there, dumbfounded. No one talked to him like that. He was a prefect. He could deduct points for that. Straightening his robes, he looked around and saw the disbelieving looks on his peers. Sneering, Draco headed off in the other direction. _Respect, that's what they are lacking_, he thought darkly.

He entered transfiguration just as McGonagall stood up. She frowned at him of course then turned to beam at Hermione. Draco frowned. It was bad enough he had to have classes with the filthy Mudblood, but to have to meet with her once a week, that was real torture. She was a real wench in every meaning of the word. Who cared if she'd quote unquote "grown into her body"? So far Weasley was the only one reaping the benefits. Draco would kill himself before even thinking about another witch who wasn't pureblooded. The only problem with that was there weren't many left.

Sure there were the Zabinis, Parkinsons, Dolohovs, Macnairs, the Lestranges had been, the Changs, the Boots, Livingstons, and, of course, lest he forget, the Weasleys. They had been some of the originals, if the legends and family creeds read correctly. They were older than even the Malfoys, something which cheesed his father off no end. They had lived in Britain for centuries, practicing magic with even the earliest Vikings and settling in Ireland before migrating across to England. And why, might you ask, did he know all this? His father made it Draco's business to know.

"Two rules, Draco," his father had explained. "One, keep your friends close, but your enemies closer."

"And the second, Father?"

"Don't make friends."

Draco counted the amount of times those words had saved his reputation, maybe even his life. Smirking, he flipped the page in his transfiguration book as everyone else did, eager to get away from his classmates and back up to the Inverted Tower. It wasn't that he wasn't a good transfiguration student; he just chose not to apply himself to the particular class, so he passed, but with average marks. Same with charms, he just didn't care enough. Now, potions – that was a class! And astronomy and arithmacy, those were classes.

As McGonagall droned on, Draco's mind turned to the diary again. He wondered if it would still be there, if someone had written in it again. Half of him just wanted to wait around until the person came, but half of him wanted it to stay a secret, not even one he knew. He wanted to guess who the person was, a sort of game.

That, in his opinion, was a Slytherin's greatest weakness. The tendency to make everything a game caused them to not take things seriously enough, impairing them when they came up against a foe who wasn't "only kidding" or "playing along." The ability to make things a game was an asset, too. When you grew up, you learned what and what not to say and who to say it to. You were articulate and well spoken, keeping things to yourself until the victor of the game was named.

McGonagall looked sharply in his direction, and Draco quickly turned his kettle into something resembling a mouse. It still steamed at the mouth. _No matter, I'll get a tutor over the break, _he thought._ Either that or Father can pay someone off_.

Break was coming up soon...well, if three months was soon. It was to him. A lot of things could happen in three months. Staring blearily at the chalkboard, Draco did his best to keep up his façade. It was hard when the damn class was so bloody dull! He just wanted to go to his room and go to bed.

Just as he was about to give up and go to sleep, McGonagall dismissed them. Draco packed up and got out as quickly as he could.

* * *

ºMatchmaker, Matchmaker – song in _Fiddler on the Roof_; go see it if you haven't.


	3. Illusions of Reality

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER THREE:**

**Illusions of Reality**

* * *

_We All Need_

Ginny sighed, burying her face in her hands. The first week was done. Finally, it was the weekend. After a short visit to Inverted Tower, she had flopped down in her bed and slept, soundly if that could be expected, for nearly twelve hours, all the way until noon that Saturday. She must have really been tired.

That had to be it. Because she was exhausted all week. First Snape had accused her of "sabotaging her own classmates with a faulty Sanitizing Solution." Really, "sabotage"? Wasn't that a little bit of an exaggeration? But what could she expect from Snape? He already hated her whole family and all her friends, why not her?

She had, on encouragement from her brother and Hermione, come to the first Quidditch practice of the season. She was rather proud of Ron; though he hadn't made the team, he was commentator for the games and did a damn good job, too. Well, he said all the right things unless you were a Slytherin. In which case, he railed you endlessly and had to be quieted down by McGonagall numerous times.

But, Ginny suspected Ron and Hermione knew of Harry's newfound attraction to her and were trying to encourage her to like Harry in return. Typical, if she did say so herself. But Ginny often found herself wondering why. Why did she need to like Harry? In a word, she didn't. She didn't need to like him. She didn't even need him, not like she used to. Whenever she saw him, she just saw him, some boy, some nice-looking, but overall, just nice boy she might want to be friends with...and that was it. It was like that with Colin. But, the other part of her said that she barely knew Harry, that if she did, she might get to like him. What was wrong with giving it a try?

She decided to ask Colin next time she talked to him. Then she remembered. The next night was when she was supposed to pose for some photos or painting or something. She would have forgotten. She wrote on the top of her hand inconspicuously with a quill before rolling on her back and sighing.

She really needed to sleep; she told herself that she would. So Ginny slipped into a shallow slumber.

* * *

_The Problem with Shallow Slumbers_

It was dark, presumably night. Two people were outlined in the pale light of a first quarter moon. One was tall and willowy, the second short, rotund, and on his knees. Around them, near the shadows, there was a group of people. Not really a group, but three or four. They all wore black; silver masks obscured their faces.

The high pitch of the tall man in black cut the silence. "My loyal Death Eaters," he said slowly. "I have called you for two reasons tonight. One being my heir. A candidate has been chosen, a very special candidate. She is now a student, fifteen years of age, and attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

A few of the Death Eaters mumbled to each other.

"I have deduced, with help from my loyal servant, Wormtail, that she is an Elemental, a very powerful one."

"My Lord," a calm voice said. "I mean no insult, but if you required an Elemental, my wife is an Elemental, a Wind. She would have borne your child with pleasure."

"A Wind, Lucius. A lesser Elemental. I have found a hybrid, an actual Fire and Wind Elemental, part human, part Fire, part Wind. I have found a soul powerful enough to carry my heir."

"Yes, Master. You are right, she is better than my wife. Forgive my impertinence."

"You are forgiven," the dark master said loftily. "That is my first reason. My second is that I have discovered a traitor among you here. You four, my most loyal of Death Eaters, are charged with figuring out who it is and killing him. I will wait and watch."

Immediately the wands were out. Accusing voices rose loudly, disturbing the serenity of the forest. A victim was chosen and killed before the master. His face was bloodied, his mask distorted, his body beaten, his bones ripped willfully from his body. Then, at last, his head was severed from his body and given as a sick gift to the Dark Lord.

* * *

_Comfortable In Your Other Skin, Part I_

Ginny woke, panting and sweating. She tumbled from her bed, landing heavily on the floor and rolling to her side, sitting against her bed. She untangled herself from the heavy blankets and threw them opposite from her. She was sticky and hot, her hair matted against her head like a second skin.

Groaning, she made her way to the bathrooms, soaking her head in the cold water. The dreams were back; stronger than ever, it seemed. She still couldn't remember the damn things either, just that the two men were there and a few others, too. And death. Yes, someone died; that was for sure. A quick image of a severed head entered her mind, and she shuddered.

Sitting on the cold, tile floor of the bathroom she felt tears prick in her eyes. Her head hurt so much, it was almost unbearable. Her body reverberated with something; it wasn't pleasant, whatever it was. She felt herself becoming sick, wanting to puke. She remembered she'd not eaten much the day before.

She stood, smiling painfully, smoothed back her hair and dried her face. It was going to be a long night. So she went back to her room, pulled out her diary, and began to write.

It must have been morning when she stopped, for her alarm went off and she got ready to go. It was Sunday, but she wanted to try to eat something for breakfast before going to her poetry club meeting. After pulling on her robes, she frowned, finding the dream catcher in the pocket. No wonder she'd dreamt that night; she hadn't had the dream catcher with her. She threw the spidery web in her bed and walked out the door, cursing her stupidity.

She reached the Great Hall and sat next to Colin, who was talking excitedly with Dean and a Hufflepuff boy – Devon Weekland, she thought his name was. He was a seventh year, she remembered. He left when she sat down.

"Good morning, Ginny," Colin said happily. "Are you going to come help us tonight? I mean, I can understand if you want to back out, but I hope you won't."

"Us?" Ginny asked mildly, taking a bite out of her bread and cringing. She really didn't want to eat.

"Um, well, I sort of told Dean he could come. I hope that's okay. As I said, if you are uncomfortable, we don't have to," Colin explained hopefully.

Ginny looked into his eyes, brown and sincere, and found she couldn't deny him. He needed her help, as odd as it might be of a request. She smiled, trying to look as careless as possible.

"No, that's fine, Colin. Just – I mean, any more people and you should probably start charging admission," she joked.

Colin and Dean laughed, Colin looking rather relieved. "I'll keep that in mind, Gin. So what are you doing today?"

"Well, I have class, you know, poetry. And I have to see McGonagall. I want to try to get on the school newspaper."

"Oh, that's right," Dean said, a smile lighting his features. "Colin told me you wanted to do a dream interpretation column. I think that's a great idea. I take Divination, and I don't know what half my dreams mean. I'm sure lots of students feel the same way."

"Thanks, Dean," Ginny said. Taking a bit of fruit, she stood, stretching her arms. "I'm going to go now, get in a bit early."

"Okay, Gin, and thanks again," Colin called after her.

"Bye, Ginny!" Dean chorused.

Ginny left the hall for her meeting, hoping no one was there. She wanted to be alone. She was pleasantly surprised when she was. She took to her notebook, focusing on writing as people filed into the room, some talking quietly. The group was mostly artistic Ravenclaws, but there was a Hufflepuff and two Slytherins. Ginny was the only Gryffindor.

Ginny shifted in her seat as Blaise Zabini sat next to her. Blaise was a Slytherin a year ahead of her. He was so obviously gay it was painful. But he wasn't mean to Ginny like most Slytherins. Actually, Blaise was the only Slytherin she could halfway tolerate. He had an artistic mind and was a good critic of her poetry.

"Good morning, Ginevra," he said formally, setting his quill down on the table. He swept his fashionable black hair back behind his ears, trying desperately to catch the eye of his fellow Slytherin, a seventh year boy named Dante Graymalkin. Ginny knew of Blaise's outrageous crush; it was painfully obvious to everyone in the room, with the exception of Dante. "How was your summer?"

"Dull," Ginny answered. "I think I reached an all time boredom record. Why, how was yours?"

"Well, the family went to Peru for this reunion thing. My cousin Rosalina found out I was gay when I hit on her boyfriend and he responded. I'm sure she didn't know. I'm sure he didn't even know until I kissed him. He was a nice boy, but not what I'm looking for."

"Lucky, you could get any bloke you wanted. Almost, I mean," Ginny said, not believing she was actually jealous of a poof. "Here I am, and I'm so plain I can't get anyone to look at me like that. Well, Harry asked me to Hogsmeade, but I don't even like him."

"Yes, I heard you and that Creevey Mudblood broke up. Cut your losses, that's what I always say. But plain, Ginevra?" Blaise looked her up and down with a raised eyebrow. "Not with your hair and never with your face and body. Girl, you're hot, hot like fire. You could have any bloke you wanted. Hell, you're the type of girl that convinces men they aren't gay, and it makes me look bad. So don't you go telling me you can't get a boy; it's all in your head."

Ginny looked at Blaise speculatively. "Blaise, please stop trying to make me feel better. But did you know you put on some weight? You've got more muscle than I last saw you."

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "Were you looking? I'm flattered. But yes, I did. They're quite beautiful. If you want to see them later..."

He left the invitation hanging, but Ginny rolled her eyes, tossing her head lightly. Ginny knew a comment was bubbling at the Blaise's lips, but Celeste Sinistra, the poetry teacher, entered the room. Her long black hair swept behind her, the silver streaks shining in the dim air.

"Good morning class," she said in her airy voice. "Please take out your notebooks; I'd like to see what you wrote during the summer."

Ginny smirked at Blaise, pulling out two notebooks full. Blaise made a face and pulled out his one. Then class began for real. Ginny was reminded that Sunday mornings with Blaise really were the only things she liked about Hogwarts.

Scooting a little closer to Blaise, Ginny whispered in his ear, "You'll never guess what happened to me. Seeing you and Dante reminded me for some reason."

"What?" Blaise whispered back, writing something in his notebook.

"I ran into someone, quite literally, the other day," Ginny continued. "And the thing is, he didn't even say anything, he just looked at me. I think it's because I'm a Weasley, and he was too stunned to see I was scared of him. Gods, I was terrified. But the thing is, and I'm going to go back to this, he just looked at me."

"Oh," Blaise said, obviously coming to an understanding. "So you're the one that made Malfoy look like a deer caught in the headlights. I was wondering what happened to him. He walked into transfiguration with the oddest look on his face. It was rather cute to tell you the truth. I'm sorry I don't share a room with him anymore. Just those two, stupid sloth..."

"You must be mistaken then, because his look was full of disgust. I know he hates me, but I was waiting for some sort of verbal taunt or something," Ginny clarified, doubtful at the same time.

"As I told you, Ginevra, you are hot. Boys were going to notice sooner or later. Next year you're going to have to beat them off with a stick," Blaise teased her. Then he cast a devious look at Dante, who smiled uncertainly, and went back to his paper. "That man is so stupid..." Blaise mumbled.

"No," Ginny snorted. "You forget that's what my older brother is for."

Blaise eyes lit with amusement. "Ah, yes, the Weasleys, you being the youngest of the brood and the only girl. I hate to say it, but you hit a spot of bad luck with that one. Six older brothers, two of them carry clubs, one is a dragon trainer, another a master charmer, one's going for Minister of Magic, then Ron, with enough muscle and vigor to impregnate a small Korean village. Yes, you certainly were rather unlucky in the birthing order."

"Don't remind me," Ginny grumbled. "I'll have to date in another country. Maybe Canada ...or Spain, men are hot in Spain ."

"They certainly are," Blaise quipped. "But I think you could snag one under your brothers' noses. I actually think you could snag Malfoy."

"Malfoy," Ginny snorted. "Malfoy, Blaise? You've got to be kidding me if you think I could get him. And that's even if I wanted to, which I don't. He hates me; why would I hit on a boy that hates me?"

"He's quite the lover...or so I've heard," Blaise mumbled in a low voice. He looked surly, or so Ginny thought.

Ginny laughed a little in spite herself. "I'll keep that in mind, Blaise."

"Miss Weasley, Mr. Zabini, please continue this socialization outside of this meeting," Professor Sinistra said sternly but not in an unfriendly voice.

"Yes, Professor," Blaise said with a smile. Ginny rolled her eyes and went back to work.

* * *

_Comfortable in Your Own Skin, Part II_

Colin and Dean were waiting for her when she entered the art room that evening. They were talking quietly together, something about the lighting in one of the paintings. Ginny smiled as she opened the door, closing it quietly so as not to alert Filch. The last thing she needed was someone bursting in on her naked and assuming the worst, the word getting out to her brother, who would probably go around threatening and beating up people, Dean and Colin in particular.

"Hiya, Ginny," Colin said genially, standing and coming over to her.

Ginny glanced around. There appeared to be a sort of stage thing with appropriate lighting and a few props. Ginny smiled nervously, putting down her bag and looking at Dean and Colin with apprehension.

"Well, I suppose I didn't really know what to expect," Ginny said in a low voice.

"I want to thank you for doing this, Ginny," Dean said warmly. "I mean, you really will be the perfect model, and you don't have to worry about Colin or me spreading your photos around school or anything."

"I should hope not," Ginny grumbled.

"Yeah, Ron would beat us into an undistinguishable bloody pulp if he ever found out anyway," Colin said with boyish glee.

Ginny silently agreed with him. "Okay, so I haven't ever done this before..."

"Oh, neither have we," Dean said. "But we won't make it awkward or anything. Just tell us when you want to stop."

"Okay," Ginny said. She nodded her head to the stage. "Over there?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, we put a Cushioning Charm on the ground so you can lie down. If you wouldn't mind, just right on your side then."

Ginny swallowed, bringing her bag with her and then turning to Dean and Colin, who had situated themselves at their easels. Biting her lip nervously, she steeled herself, put down her bag, and took off her robes, which she wore nothing under.

"Let your hair down, please," Dean said in a business-like tone.

Ginny took her loose braid out, shaking her head slightly, and then lying down on the stage area a bit awkwardly. She felt, well, in a word, exposed. She reminded herself furiously that it was for art and she would do anything to help Colin; they were friends. He was trying to get into a good art school, and this was going to help him with his portfolio.

Ginny swallowed, shifting to get comfortable, then looked at Dean and Colin, who where whispering secretively. It was only when she heard her name that she frowned.

"Okay, you two, what now?" she said, regretting the irritability sinking into her voice.

"Well," Dean said, "Colin and I were saying you have the classic female body. We couldn't have got a better model."

"Oh," Ginny said. "Um, thanks."

Dean smiled and raised his brush to his canvas. Colin gave Ginny a quick wink before doing the same. Ginny sighed, re-propping her head with her hand and looking around her. She figured she was in the art room, because she'd never seen it. Ginny shivered a bit, playing with her hair in a bored fashion.

"I'm kind of cold, boys. Did you have to pick the only room in the whole castle with no fireplace?" Ginny asked.

Colin and Dean poked their heads around their canvases. Colin raised an eyebrow. "It's probably better if you're cold anyway. But if you're bored, write or do homework or something."

Ginny looked at him dumbly. "Okay."

Quickly she pulled out her diary and began writing, staring at the blank page for a moment before putting the quill to the page. The scratching of the quill filled the room, and Ginny drowned things out.

* * *

_Writing to Who You Thought Was Yourself, Part I_

September 7, 1996

I can't believe I'm doing this. It's all in the name of art, I suppose. And I never could say no properly. He asked me last year, when we were going out, and then summer came, and I couldn't see him enough to follow though with the promise. But I said I would, so I can't rightly go back on my word. I just never thought posing like this would be so much work. Move this, move that, put your hair down, put your hair up. I'm not angry or anything; I'll even volunteer to do it again.

He really has always wanted to get into a good art university, and if this helps, I'll do it a thousand times. Yes, I still love him, but I never loved him the right way, and that's why we're not going out. I think that's the problem; I can never love someone the right way. He told me that, but I didn't listen right. I can't do anything right. Well, I can pose for his paintings right at least.

I think I'm just always too occupied. The dreams are coming back, with the two men. Mother gave me this thing...this dream catcher. She said my grandmum made it when she visited the Americas. Mum said it was supposed to guard my dreams, capturing them in the web. I think I should explore, if only just once, to see if it works. Because I never remember the dreams, not right anyway. The ones about the two men I only remember pain and death.

So should I look back on the dreams? It might scare me, and I scare easily. I don't know if I could handle it even. But anything for getting rid of these dreams. I haven't dreamt like this since my first year. Mum could help those years, but I stopped telling her about it and kept it to myself.

I think that is a mistake, keeping it to myself. I should always let things out; I think that's what writing is for. It helps. I haven't been allowed a diary for a while now, but no one knows about it. If they did, they would probably freak out.

They're finishing up – lucky me. I can put my clothes back on!

September 13, 1996

_Chocolate............ ice cream.......... chocolate ice cream............ painting...... poetry........ chocolate...... boys................. kissing......... kissing boys......... nightmare........... chocolate......... mirrors............ dreaming.......... keys......... chocolate......... kissing boys....... paint......... red roses............ chocolate........... boys........music............ kissing boys..... red.......... dream catching.......... home........ coming home......... ice cream......Sunday........ birthday........ orchids........ "Dr. Livingston, I presume?"........ gold............. kissing....... chocolate..... denial.............. Egypt........... dreams......... coins......... kissing boys.......... jokes.......... chocolate........... Never-Never Land......... dreaming....... boys........... dreams............afternoon........... Quidditch............. kissing boys..........chocolate........ poetic.....lost......... poetic death......... ice cream........ kissing boys........ Slytherin.......... death............. betrayal......... dreams.......... boys.......... "Dr. Livingston, I presume?" ....... midnight.......... home........... coming home........... lost..... home........... lion.......... gold................ green......... boys.......... dreams............ _

A list, a very good one, of what I think about. Odd that kissing boys, Slytherin, death, betrayal, and boys are all lined up against each other. I don't even know where "Dr. Livingston, I presume?" comes from. Rather random even for me. Dreams and nightmares occur a lot too. But I know why that is. They've been getting worse lately; I can never remember to sleep with the dream catcher over my head. Home and lost are next to each other too. Wonder what that means.

I'm not lost at home, am I? Maybe I am. What are six shadows to live under? Hell, bring on another, I can take it.

Truthfully, I think I've done something rather dumb. You see, I'm drunk right now. Very drunk, indeed. I didn't know what it was. They told me to drink it; it would relax me. Yeah, I'm relaxed all right. At least I'm still grammatically correct. Things are really weird, I'll say that. I'm _NEVER_ doing this again. I don't like not being in control of myself.

God! Things spin odd...I'm getting off topic. So, he told me...he told me something. Um, yeah, he thinks I'm more of a sister. Yeah, and after he hit on me too, how's that family love for you? Okay, fine. I didn't really like him. I don't know why he came up to me. Maybe I looked at him too long. I stare off into space often; maybe he thinks I was staring at him. I don't even like him! It's like everything revolves around him. Maybe, I'm caught up on another boy. Terry Boot is very sweet, so is Dean Thomas. I wouldn't even mind Justin Finch-Fletchley. I could be pining over some secret love. Maybe I'll run off with a Muggle and have thirty-eight of his children. Maybe I'll open a bakery and have an affair with every father that comes in.

Okay, this stuff is something on my 'Never Again Checklist' now. I just want to get on with it. It's like he loves to rub it in my nose.

_SO! SO! _So I _THOUGHT_ I loved him. I didn't. I know that at least. Merlin. He just can't leave it alone.

Fuck.

I'm getting worse.

September 15, 1996

I reread my last entry. The only word I have to say is _WOW. _I had_ NO_ idea I felt like that. Little bit of an insight to me. I'm too lazy to take it out though. I suppose I kind of like it. It's rather like a reminder that there's a lot of stuff going on in my head and even I don't understand all of it.

I mean, I don't claim to be an enigmatically deep person or anything; I just know there are some things I don't understand about myself. I'd be happy if I just had a small house, maybe somewhere in the country, with a nice little garden out front. I would stay there for the rest of my life and die a happy old woman.

I guess in other people's minds that means I'm terribly complex. Why on earth would someone ostracize themselves from society like that unless they were horribly disfigured or terribly deep and felt like an outcast already? What some people don't understand is we're all outsiders and outcasts already. No one can really know another person, I mean really know them. And sure, if that means we're all loners, seeking our place in the galaxy, doomed to be alone and sad forever, I'll do it. It isn't bad to want to be alone. Hell, sometimes it's good for you. My brother is always like, "Where are you going? Off to some little corner to be alone? Why don't you come to the Quidditch match with us?"

Well, maybe I don't want to go to be around people. It isn't as if it's a crime to want a bloody second to get your head on straight again. That's what's wrong with me. I think too much. I can just sit at breakfast and stare off, not a care in the world. Snape's teaching a lesson; there I go off into dreamland. McGonagall's preaching Gryffindor goodness, time for a trip. Flitwick's telling me I need more work on my Charms; when's the next bus to La-La-Land? I just don't want to be there. I want to be somewhere else.

Sure I get the urge to communicate with other people and be social, but not very often. Sometimes I rather think I do it for other people, not myself. Isn't that pathetic? I do things to make other people happy. I cease being myself to make others more comfortable. That's top shelf hypocrisy right there. Why would I change myself for someone else? Why should I? In the end, they don't really matter, whatever the end may be.

September 17, 1996

_cotton candy dreams...life has little to do with living...rap, rap, rap, chipped fingernails on stainless steel, rap is overrated...caution taped conscious...promises are wood on water, they seem to go with the current...carnival trick fornication...quivering stomach, rabid butterflies, not merely anxious...tell me about the end of time, does Atlas stand up straight...who says the sky has loose morals, why can't it kiss the earth and the heavens...Christmas tree mornings with syrup and lies...techno colored nightmare coat... _

Just a bit more of my randomness. I've always wanted to use one or more of those in a poem. They just come to me, I swear.

This time I don't even have the excuse I'm hammered. No, that is clean-liver me. Gods, I have problems.

Not enough time to tell them now, I've got to study for the transfiguration test.

* * *

_Respecting Burns_

Draco closed the diary and looked out the window. It was on the lake again, but he thought it changed sometimes. Shrugging, he placed the diary back on the window seat and stared off into the distance.

This person, whoever it was, had done it again. She successfully sucked him into her world, made him feel the things she felt, laugh at the things she thought were funny, and frown at the things she didn't agree with. Whoever she was, she was a great writer, the best he'd ever read.

He stood, stretched, and made his way to the exit. It was Saturday, the first Hogsmeade Saturday. Draco found himself happily detached from Pansy. Apparently she and "Milly" didn't spend enough time together and needed some girl shopping. Fine with him, the less time he spent with her the less his brain cells were in danger of spontaneously combusting. That happened to him when he was around stupid people too much.

Draco ambled along, leisurely thinking about going to Hogsmeade and stalking up on quills and stuff for later. He didn't really have a good reason for going other than he was bored. So as he walked down the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade, he observed the disgusting third years that stuffed their faces with candy, the sedated fifth years that ate leisurely at the Three Broomsticks, and the seventh years sitting peacefully on the grass in the park area.

Draco wanted to sneer at their happiness, the content ways they lived their lives. They were so carefree, he was almost jealous. Then he remembered they were all probably poor, and he smirked.

He walked through the park, letting the autumn breeze play in his hair. It wasn't chilly out, but the weather was definitely getting cooler. Quidditch practices would get easier with the decrease in temperature, no more getting completely soaked in his own sweat.

That was when he heard the animated conversation. He rounded the corner of the path and saw two people, Gryffindor and Slytherin, talking over open books with drinks and half-eaten lunch in front of them. He recognized them, of course. One was Blaise Zabini, the insatiable and flaming homosexual that had hit on him one too many times. His black hair was shining in the sunlight, and his face was slightly angry but more argumentative. The other person surprised him, for more than one reason. One was she was a Gryffindor. But the next was she was a Weasley. Her scarlet hair gave her away. She had a defiant look in her bronze eyes, making her look rather cute, in Draco's opinion. She was sitting on the grass next to Zabini, her black shirt straining against her chest. Draco noticed with satisfaction that she was very well endowed.

Smirking a little, he waited until they noticed him, unhappy that it took a little while.

"All I'm saying is that great rhyming poetry has been written," Zabini argued. "Just take one look at any poem written by Robert Frost. One look! It's twenty times better than anything modern that doesn't rhyme."

"That's not true! e. e. cummings is recent! He doesn't rhyme and look at his poetry! It's the best love poetry I've ever read. And Keats! Just look at Keats!" she countered adamantly.

"He's not recent," Zabini said with a raise of his artistic eyebrow.

"He's good though," she ground through clenched teeth.

"True, true," Zabini concurred.

"This argument isn't really going anywhere?"

"Not unless you bring up Robert Burns again," he mumbled.

"I respect Burns!" she flared. Her eyes lit with a spark of something, something that Draco couldn't put a finger on. It intrigued him though.

It was then he was noticed. The Weasley was turned away from him, but when Zabini rolled his eyes, he caught sight of Draco. Immediately Zabini's posture and facial expression changed.

"Draco," he said formally. "What are you doing in this neck of the woods? And without your whore, no less."

Her crimson hair flashed metallic in the sunlight as she turned to him, her bronze eyes alight with something. She frowned slightly and closed her book. "I'll leave you two."

"No, Ginevra," Zabini said, putting a soft yet strong hand on her knee. "You can stay, Draco was just leaving."

So with no other alternative left, Draco decided to be a smart arse. "Zabini, I'm surprised! I thought your tastes ran a bit more on the masculine side. Either that or Weasley over here is really confused."

The Weasley's eyes flashed with anger. "Well I suppose the concept of friends would be foreign to you, Malfoy. But then, what can you expect from a Slytherin? No offense, Blaise."

Zabini immediately cracked up, his dark eyes watering. "Oh gods, Ginevra! That was perhaps the greatest thing I've ever heard! Go on now, Draco, I think you've been outclassed, and by a Weasley no less."

"At least I don't have to buy my robes secondhand," Draco said, trying to sound lofty when he said it.

Zabini only laughed harder. "You've made him resort to that insult again! The last time I heard that one was in my second year!"

Draco, deciding the most imperious thing to do was take points away and leave, sneered and did so. "Ten points from Gryffindor, Weasley."

Her pretty little mouth dropped, and her eyes held shock. "For what?" she said, standing and putting her hands on her – in Draco's opinion, glorious – hips.

"Disturbing the peace and slandering a great House," Draco replied, his sneer deepening a bit.

"I didn't slander any great House, just Slytherin," she shot back.

Zabini's joyous laughter didn't help.

"And what's more, who gave you the right to punish whom you please? Who died and made you Merlin?" she said angrily. Draco could tell, no matter how Zabini made light of it, the shot at her family had hurt.

"Since I made prefect, that's when," Draco answered coolly, fingering his badge.

She closed her mouth, flinching momentarily. Then she bent down, scooped up her books, and grabbed Zabini by the forearm, wrenching him up. "Come on, Blaise, we're going!"

Zabini was still laughing, but he followed her dutifully, grabbing his book as he left.

"And that's five points for littering!" Draco called after them, eyeing their half-eaten lunch.

He heard another spike of laughter from Zabini, and he cringed. The two were like brother and sister, Zabini and – What did he call her? Ginevra? Yes, they were just like brother and sister. It made Draco slightly uncomfortable. Slytherin and Gryffindor weren't supposed to be friends. They weren't supposed to even like each other, much less voluntarily spend free time with each other.

But at the same time, something tugged at the back of his mind. He wondered what the diary woman would say about it. Only half caring, he made his way back to the castle, content to wonder. As he entered his room, he found a letter on his desk. It was from his father; who else? Grudgingly, he opened it, reading over it quickly.

_Draco – _

_I much desire to talk with you. Be at your hearth at ten-thirty on the twenty-first of September. _

– _L. M._

Short and to the point, just like his father. Well, his father wasn't short, but he was certainly to the point. Actually, his father wasn't too much to the point either. His father was a fairly vague, slippery, vindictive, manipulative sadomasochist with no conscience, no morals, and rather strange goals. Goals like killing people, manipulating people, inflicting pain, raping little boys, etc.

Draco detested his father and didn't bother hiding the fact either. He had grown beyond the stage where he needed his father's acceptance and shelter. Draco had enough money, power, and influence as a sixth year to do pretty much whatever he wanted. He could move out tomorrow and be fine for the rest of his life, living on the inheritance from his deceased grandfather. He wouldn't though. There wasn't any reason. His father let him do whatever he wanted and didn't give a rat's arse if he hated him. It was just the way it went.

It wasn't as if Draco sacrificed anything to do what his father said once in a while. He didn't lose pride; his father wouldn't ask him to do anything that did that. He didn't lose power; his father was obsessed with maintaining the family power. And he certainly couldn't lose money; he had so much money he could lose over five hundred million galleons before he needed to worry about money, and only because his mother had rather eccentric tastes.

So when ten-thirty rolled around and Draco was standing in front of an empty fire, he didn't restrain his anger when his father finally showed his effeminate face...at eleven-thirty.

"Nice, Lucius," Draco snarled. "I've been here for an hour. I do have a life you know."

"Draco, Draco, Draco," his father said smoothly. "Patience, my precious son."

"That makes me uncomfortable, Lucius," Draco said coolly. "Why did you call me? This is dangerous."

"Quite obviously," Lucius sneered, dropping the "concerned, fatherly" voice. Draco doubted if he had ever been a "concerned father." "But what must be done must be done, Draco. I have a special mission for you, my son."

"Joyful, joyful," Draco drawled. "What now?"

"You need to find someone for me, someone who goes to your school."

"Well, at last we've narrowed it down to several hundred people." Draco rolled his eyes.

"Watch your mouth, Draco," his father quipped. "This one is important. She is – how you say – the chosen one of our master."

"Your master," Draco grumbled irritably. He wasn't yet a Death Eater. He didn't have any real desire to be one either. Upon closer inspection, he had no real desire to be like his father, one reason he wasn't happy about having to become a Death Eater.

His father, however, ignored him pointedly and continued. "She is a very special girl, young, probably fifteen or younger. I don't know much about her, other than she is Elemental and very powerful. I don't know how much she will stand out, maybe not at all. She is a Fire and Wind hybrid though. You do know what all this means, right?"

"I know what an Elemental is, Lucius," Draco drawled. "Mother is one, so I am one. I know."

Lucius sneered. "Yes, your mother is one. But remember, no matter how much control you have over your powers, you are a half-breed of a lesser Elemental, not fit to go up against a higher, hybrid Elemental. You can't overpower this girl."

"Then Lucius, what do you so expertly suggest?" Draco asked with a sneer. "How did you snag mother?"

Lucius smirked. "I made her fall in love with me. How else, my dear boy?"

Draco couldn't imagine anyone willingly falling in love with his father, but he kept his mouth closed. He rather suspected there was much more to the story of his father and mother than he was told.

"So I find this rogue Elemental, make her fall in love with me, and then what? Marry her?" Draco sneered.

But his father snorted in dismissal. "You take her to our master, you stupid boy. Don't ever forget that he is your master. You will not make me look insufficient in front of the master, not ever. None of your sharp tongue and smart arse remarks."

"Yes, Lucius," he answered without the slightest hint of remorse in his voice.

His father seemed to accept it, and he brushed his long hair off his shoulder. "Now I must leave you; I have important issues to attend to."

Then his face was out of the fire and Draco sat on his chair, looking up at the clock. "Yeah, I bet you do, you pedophilic bastard," he mumbled. He stretched and fell into bed, his dreams troubled and dark.

* * *

_Memories in Blueº_

A little boy with blonde hair and a thin nose sat alone in a room with many, many toys. His mother, or assumed mother, was sitting in a chair, staring out into space, clearly not in her right mind; the vial with drops of clear liquid still in it attesting to her state of drugged bliss. Her bright blue eyes were open but sagging; her lithe, willowy body sprawled out artlessly. Her thin lips and aristocratic nose made her look like a skeleton, and it was true, for she'd not eaten correctly for the past seven years.

The little boy, however, was playing peacefully with some magical blocks, moving them around with his mother's wand and building something primitive. He looked around with his cold gray eyes, not completely understanding why his mother wouldn't play with him, or at least take her wand from him. She would always play a little in the morning, and sometimes if he was good, she would play in the afternoon too. When she played, really played, the wind seemed to always be blowing; this, the little boy noticed. It was always a happy little breeze, or a playful, gentle wind.

The little, pale boy frowned, tossing a block towards his mother. She didn't respond and let it hit her thin thigh. Just as he was about to do it again, the door opened wildly, slamming against the wall.

"Narcissa!"

It could only have been the boy's father, for their eyes were the same, and though the boy's father's skin was more tanned, it was the same consistency. His father burst in sometimes, always angry. The boy always remembered his father as angry, ever since he was a baby.

"Narcissa!" he boomed. "Get up! Get up now! The Parkinsons are coming! Ennervate!"

The boy frowned. He didn't like the Parkinsons. They had a daughter that followed him around and a son that always beat him up. But right then, he looked up at his raging father and comatose mother and frowned.

His mother was waking slowly, her long fingers going to her eyes and rubbing them. "Go away, Lucius," she grumbled. "I'm playing with Draco."

It was almost too quick for the boy to see. His father's cane whipped out and smacked his mother in the face. She flew to the side, flying out of the chair and landing on her back on the ground next to it. A harsh sob and a shudder, and she got up, sitting slightly. The side of her face was bloody, the cane doing its job well, automatically bruising her fine skin.

"I'm sorry," she whispered between choked sobs. She crawled to the boy's father on her knees, crying blood and tears painfully. "I'm so sorry, Lucius."

His father raised his head imperiously, refusing to look at his wife. "Yes, I know, Narcissa, you always are. Now get cleaned up; make Draco presentable. And for God's sake, woman, take your wand from him; he's doing it again."

The boy's father sneered at him, kicking his simpering wife away as he left, slamming the door shut. Draco came to his mother, standing over her shivering form. He was young, too young to understand why they fought, but old enough to know he couldn't do anything until his father left. For five years, he remembered his father doing this to his mother; the first time he remembered, when he was four, he got hit by his father for trying to push him away.

As his mother had mended him then, so he mended her now. Taking her wand with great care, he pointed it silently at her face. He said no words, but the wounds healed, and his mother's porcelain face returned to its normal, crystalline beauty.

"Thank you, Draco-baby," his mother said tiredly, sitting now on the ground with her legs crossed. She opened her arms, and the boy climbed into them willingly. His mother always smelled like a cool spring breeze; her hands always knew where to hold him to make everything right. She cried into his small, skinny body as she always did.

The boy hugged her gently, trying to tell her it was all going to be okay.

"Mummy," he said in his small voice. "Mummy? Father will get angry if you don't hurry."

The boy shivered in the sudden cold that hit the room.

"Always remember Mummy loves you, Draco," his mother said firmly. "Never forget that."

* * *

_Another Thing That Burns_

Ginny woke in tears, though she wasn't sure why. She was burning again, but she remembered what she had done that night before she went to sleep. She had put the dream catcher over her bed. She smiled to herself, getting out of bed and walking to her window. A cool wind picked up as she opened it, and she sighed as her body soaked it in. It smelled clean and reminded her of her dream for some reason. She looked up at the moon and stars.

It was clear that night, pleasantly so. The breeze whipped about her, circling her before flying out the window. The stars shone in the sky, diamond-like, and flickered. Sighing again, she got up, closing the window, and plucked the dream catcher from its spot above her head. It was humming slightly, something that disturbed Ginny, but not enough to explore. Upon reflection, that was what probably what got her in so much trouble her first year. She reminded herself that her mother had given her the dream catcher, not a psychotic spirit of a sixteen-year-old madman.

She took her wand from under her pillow, polishing it quickly with her nightgown out of habit before hesitantly bringing it to a stop a few centimeters from the ruby jewel at the center of the shimmering web. Frowning, she gathered her courage and touched her wand to the jewel.

Immediately she was assaulted with visions, dark and fanciful, bright and terrifying, horrible and scaring. But all of them almost too quick for her to see. It slowed, showing her a vision in slow motion. Then it sped up, going faster and faster without pattern, rhyme or reason.

She wasn't sure how long she stayed there, watching the visions, but when it finally ended, she felt drained and tired, as though she'd been there for hours. Looking at her clock, she found she had been there for hours. Three and a half. The dream catcher was humming lower now, not as awake as it had seemed earlier.

Ginny frowned, feeling a bit light-headed. She got off her bed, washing her face fastidiously and putting on a light robe. She picked up the dream catcher, holding it up to the moon. It was an odd thing, to be sure. Her mother had given it to her secretly, not wanting her brother to see it, but also for no apparent reason. Her mother never did anything for no apparent reason. She was like Dumbledore in that respect.

Ginny recalled slipping the dream catcher in her bag, not really caring. But the dreams came all the same, and she decided to sleep with it. The dreams had stopped for a while then came back, but they were different. There were certainly less, as though some were being filtered. Ginny had a feeling all the dreams she'd just seen (and she assumed they were dreams, not visions) were the ones filtered away from her.

The thing was she was never in her dreams. She didn't remember taking part in any of the dreams; she was always watching. The dream that stuck in her mind right then was the one with Draco. The woman she recognized as Narcissa Malfoy had called him Draco, her son. And Lucius Malfoy had been in the dream too. It was a terrifying dream, but it set her with a new vision of the family. There was no doubt Lucius Malfoy was in control, his wife barely worth squat after giving birth to Draco. The child, Draco, was different from what Ginny pictured. Sure, he was skinny, pale, and blonde, but she expected much more of a monster, a bratty child. He was surprisingly calm and loving. It made Ginny frown. She almost regretted yelling at him the other day...almost.

But along with the images of the disturbing Malfoy family, she had got hold of the dreams of the two men, the tall one and the short one. They were scattered though, in bits and pieces, as though they were broken by waking. Ginny was good at dream interpretation, but the few dreams clearly remembered seemed to be memories almost.

And they weren't her memories.

And it worried her.

* * *

ºMemories in Blue – rip-off of "Rhapsody in Blue" by George Gershwin


	4. Of Answering

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER FOUR:**

**Of Answers**

* * *

_The Trouble with Memories, Part I_

Masking her face with feigned happiness, she came and sat next to Colin and Dean. They were talking about something or another; she wasn't really listening. She ate sparingly, the memories of the night before springing to life with every person she saw.

She remembered dreaming about Colin. He was getting into an art university, and a lot of people wanted him to sign autographs. She looked at her brother and remembered he was going to ask Hermione to marry him under a full moon. She looked at Harry and found memories of darkness; the two men appeared, broken up by visions of people who could only be his parents. Green flashes and screams interrupted the fragile vision, and she turned away to Parvati Patil. A supermodel looking like her walked down a ramp. She looked away from her and found her eyes locked with the sharpest Mercurian eyes. The boy. The jewel. The mother. The tears. The wind. The cane. The fear. The blood. It all came rushing back, looking into the eyes of Draco Malfoy.

Ginny stood sharply, earning a glance from Colin. Her head felt like it was splitting and spinning into an alternative universe. Everywhere she looked, she found memories. She clutched her hair, her breath becoming quick.

"Ginny?"

The voice sounded like it was through cottony gauze. Everything looked odd; it was shadowed and unclear, fuzzy. Ginny staggered away from the bench, her head spinning faster and faster.

"Ginny?"

It was her brother. Hermione...married...red hair...kids...

"Ginny? What's wrong?"

It could only be Harry. Darkness...Voldemort...green...mother...curse...Avada Kedavra...death...

"Ginny?"

Colin again. School...art...love...gentle...painting...art...

Ginny finally looked up at the morning ceiling. She clasped her hands over her ears and sank to her knees. Everything was so fuzzy...

Then she went black.

* * *

_The Whisper of Spies_

"It finally happened, Albus."

"Yes."

"How is she?"

"She will survive. I fear the dreams were very strong. Molly may have not done an easy thing by giving her Eva's dream catcher. I know she felt like she was helping, but it piled the dreams on and on until it became too much. I'm actually surprised she lasted so long."

"You always said she was strong."

"And yet I worry for her, Alastor. I wonder how her Elemental powers will react with her Dreamweaver skills."

"Fire and dreams are very closely linked, as Wind and dreams are. I don't think that we have to worry about a bad reaction. Had it been Water or Earth and dreams I would have worried, Albus."

"I would have too. Do you think that is what made the metamorphosis go faster? It is supposed to occur at her sixteenth birthday, and she is yet fifteen."

"I would say that is a safe guess. Have you told Molly, yet? Arthur?"

"I invited them for tea tomorrow, Tuesday."

A sigh. "She will want to take the girl home."

"Yes."

"You must not let her. I've been hearing whispers from my spies, well, before Gosphord was killed. They found him out; I'll never know how. He was killed not too long ago, had you heard?"

"No. That is a blow indeed. Have they found Severus out yet?"

"No, he is safe. But what I heard from Gosphord before he was killed was disturbing. It seems as though Voldemort is looking for an heir. One of his own flesh."

"Can he do that, Alastor?"

A shrug and snort. "He's not human enough in my opinion, but he may yet find a way. I heard he wanted to do it the all-natural way. That must mean he has a woman in mind. I don't think he'll choose just any woman either. She'll have to be strong, strong enough to carry his offspring. And she'll have to be powerful."

"This isn't good, Alastor."

"I know it."

A silence.

"You don't think...Albus, she's just a girl!"

"Like that would matter to Voldemort, Alastor. She is powerful, Elemental, and, though I doubt he knows it, a powerful, or soon to be powerful, Dreamweaver. Alastor, she's perfect. In a year or so, she'll be ready to accept his seed. Then...well, then he'll probably try to capture her."

"That's sick, Albus. Sick!"

"I know, Alastor."

A silence.

"Will you tell her?"

"Who?"

"Molly, Ginevra, Minerva, take your pick. Minerva will be damned before you place more charms around the girl than you already have without knowing why. She'll want an explanation as much as Molly will. And though I think it would be cruel to say we suspect Ginevra of being a candidate for Voldemort's 'Reproduction Campaign,' you have to tell her something. Albus, you have to tell them. You have to warn them."

A long silence.

"Yes. Yes, I will, Alastor. How much to say is always the question."

"How much is always the question, Albus. Always."

* * *

_Tea Isn't Too Much Trouble_

Ginny awoke from a deep sleep, her head pounding and her stomach growling ferociously. It was light in the room, white sheets and white curtains, stone walls and stone floors. It was kind of cold, but her blanket made it tolerable. Just then, the bustling nurse, Madam Pomfrey, came bursting out of her office and hurried to Ginny's side, popping a thermometer in her mouth before humming and sighing.

"Oh, you gave us all a scare, little Weasley," she sighed. Reading the dial, she hummed again and began brewing a potion. "Oh yes, you did. Been asleep for three days. Oh, and the Headmaster wants to see you; he's been in here every day. You've got some flowers and such, foolish things really. How are those blasted Burning Bootie's Beans or whatnot going to get a young girl well?"

Madam Pomfrey fretted and talked endlessly, Ginny feeling a bit disoriented. Asleep? For days? Her? She frowned, looking out the window at the rising sun. She pulled her blankets to her and glanced at the foot of her bed. There were flowers and cards from her friends, chocolate, eaten, presumably by Ron. She crawled to the end of her bed as Madam Pomfrey busied herself.

There was a card from Hermione, a card from Harry. There was candy from Ron. Blaise had sent a new poem to her, something, on a brief look, that appeared to be about dying alone in the rain. Colin and Dean had given her some nice cartoon sketches. Ginny smiled at the little gifts.

"Now drink this," Madam Pomfrey commanded. "Go on, then."

Ginny drank it, though it tasted awful, and leaned back in her bed.

"The headmaster wants your presence in his study," Madam Pomfrey continued. "So take a shower here, and I'll have the elves bring up some of your clothes. And I'll send up some food, though heavens know Albus will probably just fill you with sweets anyway. What goes through that man's head..."

The nurse left, showing her the showers. Ginny washed up quickly, helping herself to a Chocolate Frog before her meal came. She still wasn't sure why she was there. She figured she must have passed out in the Great Hall after... after... whatever had happened to her.

What had happened to her?

The last thing she remembered was...lots of memories. Not hers. Dreams. But not hers. This made Ginny frown deeper. She needed some questions answered. But then, she supposed, that was what Dumbledore was for.

So after checking out with Pomfrey, she made her way to the headmaster's office, remembering where it was from her first year. It took her a couple of tries to figure out the password, but she got it, and she climbed up the winding staircase. She climbed right into the headmaster's office, Dumbledore himself sitting at his desk, a peacock quill in hand, and his spectacles shining happily.

"Ah, Miss Weasley," he said kindly. "Please sit. Tea? Lemon drop? I daresay Madam Pomfrey has fed you."

"Yes, Headmaster. And tea, if it isn't too much trouble," Ginny said quietly. "Though I think I'd rather like an explanation, or at least some small questions answered."

"Of course, of course," Dumbledore said, his blue eyes making him look chipper as usual. "I suspected you would have quite a few questions." Ginny nodded, taking the tea he conjured and sipping it politely. "Now please, ask away."

Ginny sighed, picking her words carefully. "I think I should start with how I got in the infirmary."

"Ah, yes. You had an unfortunate accident in the Great Hall, causing quite a bit of a stir, as I recall, as you passed out." He said it as though he were reciting the statistics of a good Quidditch game. It made Ginny smile.

"I should clarify. Why did I pass out, Headmaster?"

"Now that will take a bit of explaining to answer. Traditionally, your mother would have told you on your sixteenth birthday, but it seems you may be the exception to the rule. Your mother, loathe though she was to do it, has sent you a letter. She was...indisposed."

Dumbledore handed her a thick, cream colored envelope. Ginny looked at him for permission to read it, and he nodded. Ginny opened it, looking over the contents carefully.

_Dearest Daughter, _

_My dear Ginny, I write you now only because I cannot come to you. I would have, of course, preferred to tell you in person, but things as they are, I cannot speak of them. So I apologize in advance if this sounds cold and detached. Just remember I love you dearly. _

_In my mother's side of the family, the Tuckers, a gift was given to the women born into it. They were called Dreamweavers, powerful witches who could manipulate the sleeping state of a human. Their powers extended over the collective conscious of the entire world, and they were gifted with the sight and power over dreams. You, my dear daughter, are one of these Dreamweavers. I have known since you were but a child in my womb. You, little Ginny, have control of the Dreamworld, a great gift and curse. _

_The first year or so is always the worst. I remember mine without any warm thoughts. You may not sleep well or much. You may not eat properly; you might grow tired and detached and even temperamental. This all will pass. For when you gain control over your power, you will be able to create dreams for people to dream, see other people's dreams, and send dreams to other people. _

_It is a great responsibility to be a Dreamweaver. I know I can trust you to do the right thing. _

_I wish that was the only news that I had to tell you. Unfortunately, your good luck does not end there. Again, I apologize for not being able to tell you all of this to your face. _

_When you were yet a child in my womb, a great Meeting clashed near our house. I know you know what a Meeting is, so when I say Fire and Wind, it should surprise you. Back then, warnings weren't what they are today, and I was caught in the storm while looking for Fred and George outside. The Meeting stilled over me, and I was given the choice of death for me and my children or letting the Meeting of Fire and Wind alter you, make you a hybrid Elemental. For the sake of all our lives, I chose for you to become Elemental. _

_I have never regretted my decision, as you have always made me so proud and grateful to have such a daughter as you. I hope Albus Dumbledore can help you as he helped me. I will not see you for winter break, nor for spring. Though I cannot tell you why, know this, I will always love you, no matter what. I believe in you, and I know you are strong. You will conquer this and come out all the stronger. I love you with all my soul, and I send happy dreams your way. _

_Love eternally, your mother, _

_Molly Weasley _

Ginny looked up at the headmaster, disbelief and awe in her eyes. She was what? And what? The letter slipped from her fingers absently as she stared into space. She was only vaguely aware of the headmaster summoning it and reading it, humming lightly.

"Yes," Dumbledore said in a business-like tone, "that does seem to cover it. I'm very sorry she couldn't tell you in person, though I know she wanted to. She told me a thousand times that she would, but it appears she wasn't quite quick enough. I assume this just adds to the list of questions you have. In my experience, answers only lead to more questions."

Ginny looked at him blankly. "So those weren't my dreams. They were other people's dreams. Dreams I was seeing because of this...of this _gift_ I have."

"Your Dreamweaver's gift, yes," Dumbledore said. "And yes, they were other people's dreams. Dreamweavers tend to gather the dreams of those who touch them, who are close and leave impressions on them."

"So how do I...I mean...make it stop?" she asked carefully.

"Stop, Miss Weasley?" Dumbledore questioned. "Well I'm afraid that it doesn't just stop. It takes great control of mind and spirit to gain power over your dreams and those of the people around you. It will take years before you can create a dream of your own. But then, you are a very powerful Dreamweaver; you could master is sooner than others. The fact that you are so receptive to dreams proves that much."

Ginny was quiet. "Where is my mother? Why can't she be here?"

At that, Dumbledore's face became very grave. "On that, Miss Weasley, I cannot comment. Rest assured she is doing something very brave, very brave indeed. Something that could help witches and wizards anywhere."

"With her gift?" Ginny asked in a small voice.

All her answer was that of a smile.

Ginny swallowed, looking at her hands. "Headmaster, I saw some...some terrifying things. I think some of them you need to know."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Miss Weasley?"

Ginny swallowed again, thinking of the dreams she thought were from Harry. "I've seen, I think, what Harry Potter dreams."

Dumbledore let out a sigh. "Yes, I suspected you would. Any good Dreamweaver would intercept that boy's dreams. He is rather powerful, especially in that area. It comes from his link with Voldemort. It could also come from your link with Voldemort."

Ginny shook her head. "No, Riddle never knew these things. He is different from Voldemort. Different and similar at the same time. Does that make any sense?"

"Yes, Miss Weasley," Dumbledore said gravely. "Please continue."

Ginny licked her lips. "He's looking for someone, Voldemort. A girl, I think. She's a student at Hogwarts. I'm sorry, but I don't know why he wants her. But there was one thing I do remember, about a man. His name was Welsh. Voldemort asked his servant, I don't remember his name. He is the short one, round and balding. He had a very distinctive silver arm."

"That would be Peter Pettigrew," Dumbledore said. "And yes, he is alive. And no, Sirius Black did not kill him or Lily or James. And yes, Harry knows this."

Ginny blinked her eyes for a moment. "That would explain a great many things I've heard over the years." Dumbledore smiled knowingly at this. "Anyway," Ginny continued, "they were talking about a man by the name of Duncan Welsh, and how he was loyal to them as a spy. I'd heard the name before, but I don't know where."

Dumbledore sighed. "I had expected this. Duncan Welsh is – _was_, now – the Head of the Department of Mysteries, around the time you were born. He knew of your status as a Dreamweaver and Elemental and wanted to perform...experiments on you and your particular magic."

"Oh," Ginny said simply.

"Yes," Dumbledore concurred. "My sentiments exactly."

A burst at the fire interrupted their chat, and a man Ginny didn't recognize came in. He was tall and dark, his nose oddly long, and his eyes a shade too pale.

"Dumbledore," he said, "you have to come now. Jeannette's gone critical; you've got to come now."

Dumbledore stood, looking at Ginny apologetically. "It appears my assistance is needed. If you have any more questions, feel free to come in next Saturday."

Then he walked through the fire, leaving Ginny alone. Alone with her thoughts. And her dreams. She could feel them on the edge of her mind, waiting until sleep became too much so they could take over her mind. Refusing to sleep was no choice, but she didn't really know how to control them. And the whole concept of her being a Dreamweaver ... well, it was hard to swallow, never mind the bit about her being a hybrid Elemental. Her mother had always had a way with her bad dreams. She'd always made them go away; always made the good ones come. But then she'd gone and got herself caught in a Meeting, and now Ginny was here with too much on her adolescent mind, and she wanted to explode!

Ginny groaned, standing up and stretching. Well, there was no time like the present. Maybe a quick stop at Inverted Tower would do her some good. Her diary needed to be updated anyway.

September 27, 1996

They say that things can only get better once you hit rock bottom.

I think I'm the designated exception to that rule. For fun, let's just throw in every rule ever because I don't have enough bad luck. Because let me tell you, I've hit about as low you as you can get, and it isn't looking any better. I suppose it could be worse. It could be raining. But right now, it looks pretty bleak.

I have no idea where my mother is; she said not to come home for break. I hope she's not in trouble. I hope father's not letting them exploit her power. I doubt they could force her to do anything, so she's probably safe. Or as safe as she can be. I don't know much; they won't tell my anything with the exception that she's doing something great for The Cause.

Great. Because that clarifies a whole hell of a lot.

Gods, I'm tired. I'm getting irritable too, I think. Mum warned me there were a few side effects in her letter. I never imagined the headaches came with it. I'm not sleeping because of the dreams. They are always there, lurking behind the gauze of sleep. I can never shake them. I've not tried to sleep yet; I've not had the time.

I just got back from the headmaster's office. That's where he gave me my mother's letter. She explained everything in that letter, down to the very last detail. I still don't know how to keep the dreams away. And she throws the bomb at me.

"Ah, old family secret! You receive other people's dreams. Oh, and one more thing! While I carried you in my womb, I got caught in a Meeting. Good luck with your life, baby!"

She goes from one extreme to the next. One minute she doesn't want me to ever

grow up and is giving me dolls for my birthday, the next she is telling me I have to make my own way in the world. I'm rather confused.

A lot of things are making me confused lately. It sucks. I hate using that word. It makes me sound uneducated. I'm not illiterate; I can be more creative than that. Well, I take it back; McGonagall doesn't seem to think I'm literate. She rejected my newspaper idea. She never was very creative.

I'll just stick to poetry, thanks.

But being confused, yeah, I'm rather confused. Guys bite. I don't understand! I know, I know, no names, I promised myself that, but there are too many HEs in the world. A codename, maybe? (At the risk of sounding like a child, I'm going to continue that fanciful notion of having the codenames. I'm thinking Stag for I know who, Unforgettable for I know who, Butterfly for I know who, and Painters – both of them – for I know who. Yes, that should do it.)

Okay, all I get is brotherliness from Stag now. One minute he wants to hit on me, the next he wants me like his sister? What the hell is wrong with him? And Unforgettable… let's not even get into that. After I had that dream, it's made me look at him differently. I never imagined his life was like that. His poor mother. I'm not sure I pity him, but then I rather don't think he'd appreciate pity. Actually, I know he wouldn't. Butterfly has gone crazy. He won't stop chasing after that guy, that seventh year in our class. Painters want me to come in again and pose for some other thing. I've found I actually like it; I'm not uncomfortable at least. They wanted to know if they could bring another next time, some seventh year. I said okay.

But seriously, I need to get moving. Sleep calls. That horrible Black Death they call sleep. I hate it. I wish I had insomnia. Yeah, insomnia would be nice…

* * *

_Eureka!_

Draco almost dropped the diary. She was the Elemental he was looking for! She said it herself. She was the Elemental he was looking for, Voldemort was looking for. It was almost too easy. All he had to do was wait in the Tower for her to come, and he could get her to fall in love with him. Then he could deliver to her to Voldemort, and all his problems would be solved. For a little while, at any rate.

But there was something more. What was that bit about dreams? What did she mean she could "receive other people's dreams"? He would have to do some research in that area. And her mother? Who was she? What skill was going to "help The Cause"? And all those boys...he didn't think he really wanted to know. Did they all fancy her? Did she fancy all of them? One sounded gay, so that couldn't be it. Draco reflected that he didn't necessarily want to delve too deeply into it.

He placed the diary on the seat and looked out the window. Who was she? It was really getting to him. Draco prided himself that he was a pretty good judge of people, that he knew their attitudes. He would be able to tell if the diary belonged to say Pansy...or Granger...or Millicent. Or just about anyone. He always thought he knew people, or could at least judge their reactions to things.

This woman though! Draco found that he kind of did want to know her. If the way she wrote was any insight to her personality, what she was really like, then he would have no problem getting her to love him. But the thing was: would he be able to stop himself from developing emotions, too?

No. He wasn't going to fall in love with her. That was preposterous. But even _he_ felt things. He enjoyed being around people...very few people. It actually just extended to his mother. And for some reason Snape. But other than that, he really only could stand this diary girl. He didn't even know her, and he could already tell she was a person he could talk to. It scared him a little. He didn't want attachment. He didn't want feelings. And he certainly didn't want love.

Getting her to fall in love with him shouldn't be a problem though. Unless she already hated him, it should be cake. From what he gathered, she was fifteen, a fifth year, and most likely a Ravenclaw or Gryffindor. He thought Gryffindor personally, but he had to keep his eyes open.

* * *

_Because Sometimes It Hurts, Part I_

It wasn't fair. Ginny had decided that much. It wasn't fair at all. She couldn't sleep. No matter how much she tried, she could not sleep! It was infuriating, and it was bringing back her temper. Her temper, usually gentle, flared when she was tired, hungry, or sad. Right now she was tired and slightly depressed. This wasn't a good combination, not for her and certainly not for the people around her.

She had already snapped at Ron – rather unjustly, too. She had gotten upset when he told her she looked like she could use some more sleep. And a bit more to eat. She couldn't rightly tell him about being a Dreamweaver; she just couldn't. And being an Elemental? Well, that was out. So, she yelled at him.

Then Harry had looked at her oddly, and she shot a remark like, "What are you looking at? Don't you have a world to save or something?"

She felt kind of bad about that one. So when she yelled at Colin in the common room for no apparent reason at all, she had started crying. Colin had taken her into his room after shooing all the other fifth year boys out. That was where she was, crying into his chest as he awkwardly patted her on the back.

"I don't understand it, Col," she said in a choked voice, hanging onto his slightly damp shirt pathetically.

"Understand what?" he said calmly.

"All the dreams! What do they mean? I can't stand it! And they won't let me sleep! I start, and then the dreams come, and I don't," she sobbed uselessly into his chest. "What should I do, Colin?"

"Madam Pomfrey could give you some Dreamless Sleep, couldn't she?" he said helpfully. "She always helps people who have problems. And, Gin, I hate to say it, but you've got a few of those."

This only succeeded in making Ginny cry harder, gripping onto Colin securely and throwing him back on his bed.

"Ginny," he said solemnly. "I think you need to get up now."

Ginny looked up at him, very confused. "Oh. Is it...no, I know what it is. You don't even want to touch me. Gods! I must be truly repulsive! I'm sorry, I'll go..."

"Ginny." His voice was pleading now. But Ginny sat up, sniffing and wiping tears from her cheeks. "Ginny," he repeated softly, "that wasn't it..."

Ginny looked at him, hurt. He was gazing at her with soft eyes. He looked sorry, but Ginny was still hurt. "Then why? Because I don't understand," Ginny whispered. "Why doesn't anyone want me around? No one –"

But she was stopped by insistent lips on her own. Taken by surprise, her eyes flew open, and she flew back. Colin landed on her, his tongue searching out hers deftly. His hands went to her hair as his lips pressed tightly to hers.

And just as suddenly as he started, he stopped. He pulled back quickly, shock written on his face, along with a touch of fear. His hands went to his mouth, his eyes wide open. "Ginny," he whispered. "Oh, gods, Gin, I'm so sorry!"

Ginny looked at him, her eyes getting ready to water again. She scrambled to a sitting position and bolted from the bed, staring at Colin with wide eyes. She couldn't decide whether to be betrayed or surprised or flattered. She was so damn confused, and he was making it worse!

"Ginny," Colin said, a bit more calmly. He got up from the bed and ran a hand through his hair nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "Please let me explain."

Ginny nodded. "I think you should," she whispered lowly.

Colin rolled his head and paced in front of her. Then he stopped and looked her in the eye. "Ginny? Do you know how beautiful you are?"

Ginny looked at him doubtfully, frowning. "Yeah, right, Colin."

"Ginny, I'm serious! Do you know that you are possibly the most beautiful woman most guys will ever see? And it isn't just your face or your body. It's something inside of you. It's some...some fire, something. And it's deep." He ran a skittish hand through his hair again.

"I don't understand," Ginny said quietly. "If I'm so beautiful, why do guys stay away from me like the plague?"

Colin sighed. "One reason is your brother. I think most guys could get beyond that, but the other reason is you scare them."

Ginny blinked her eyes.

"You just look powerful. It's in your aura or something," Colin explained. "There's something basic and beautiful about your image, like something out of a – and I hate to say this – dream. You look like a goddess. A fire goddess or something! I can't explain it. But why do you think Dean and I wanted to paint you? We could have asked Lavender or Parvati or any of a few dozen girls from this school. Why you?"

"I was the only gullible one," Ginny spat.

"No," Colin said softly. "We wanted to see if one of us could capture that aura of yours on canvas. That's why we wanted Devon to come next time, to see if he could do it."

Ginny frowned, but Colin continued. "You don't realize what you do to Dean, do you?"

Ginny shook her head.

"Ginny, he's gay. But he sees you, and he says he would stop if he could have you for a girlfriend. How do you stop being gay? It's rather illogical if you think about it."

"Are you gay?" Ginny asked carefully.

Colin shook his head dismissively. "No. I don't think I ever will be either. I like girls too much. But you've got Dean so confused he can't think straight... or maybe that's the problem."

Ginny giggled a bit at Colin's stupid joke.

"Ginny," Colin said quietly, "are you angry with me?"

"No," Ginny answered after a pause. "I'm still a little confused, but not angry. Not at you, at any rate."

Colin sighed. "That's good." He paused for a moment. "So does this mean you'll pose for us next Friday?"

Ginny sniffed and smiled. "Okay." Then she sighed and looked at the clock. "It's almost time for dinner. And the weekend's over; I know I've got some homework that needs to be done tomorrow."

"How about you clean up and I'll meet you downstairs for dinner? You can sit with Dean and me; it'll be like a big, happy family," Colin said, slipping on his jacket.

Ginny snorted and agreed, making her way to the showers. Colin had explained a few things, but as she reflected, sitting on the tiled floor of her shower stall, he had only caused more questions to arise. She tilted her face up to catch some hot water and sighed.

Could the "basic power" Colin described to her be her Elemental power? If so, she really needed to gain some control over it. She needed to gain control over her Dreamweaver power, too. Ginny sighed again, getting out of the steaming shower and looking at herself in a full length mirror.

She didn't look like a goddess. Well, she didn't feel like one at least. Sure, she had a good body; her hips were a good shape, as were her breasts, but she didn't think she was particularly stunning. Her hair was almost too red, bordering on blood. And her eyes were a creepy shade of bronze, almost unearthly. It made her look like some sort of feral beast. Especially with the veins of gold… Her skin was pale, almost too pale. And opposed to her earlier years, she had virtually no freckles. She was almost too skinny.

Ginny sighed, stopping her external examination before she got too depressed, and got dressed, meeting Colin down in the Great Hall for dinner. Dean smiled at her, and she smiled back. She would give anything for her life to be normal. As it was, two out of her three best friends were gay, and all of them were guys. She didn't have a very good track record there.

She needed someone she could really depend on, someone she could really be friends with. Someone she could love. She wanted to love someone and be loved back. She didn't care what Colin said; if guys thought she was hot, why didn't she have a boyfriend? Why did she just have a bunch of gay guys and one guy that only wanted to be her friend?

She sighed, pushing the chicken around her plate irritably. She didn't even notice when Hermione, Ron, and Harry sat next to her, looking worried as they glanced at her. She didn't care. She stood, walked out of the hall, and right to her room, right into Inverted Tower, and right to her diary.

That was when she noticed something. The diary wasn't where she left it. Actually, the diary was on the opposite side of the couch than it was usually. She knew because she always threw it at her feet after she finished normalizing the handwriting, making it look like the dictating quills. It was where she normally sat while writing. She opened it cautiously, flipping to the latest entry date, the twenty-seventh of September.

Frowning, she looked at the page. The corner was slightly creased, which wouldn't have been so abnormal, but there were large, dirty finger spots on the page. Ginny put her forefinger in one and frowned again. It was much too big to be her. Flipping through the pages, she saw a few other pages were dotted with finger marks.

Someone had been reading her diary. Someone kind of dirty.

She dropped the book, backing away from it. Her private thoughts, her innermost desires were in that book. Someone had rifted though it and read her mind. True, there were no names, but she had done that just in case someone had read it. She wasn't totally prepared for her reaction when someone actually did. It was an intrusion of her thoughts, of her space. Her jaw trembled. She'd been betrayed one too many times that day. First Colin, though she had forgiven him, and now this...

But, something made her stop. Someone had been reading her thoughts, true. Someone had intruded upon her innermost knowledge and opinions, sure. How exactly was this bad? This person knew things about her she had never even uttered. This person had to understand her, if even just a little. Maybe she could talk to this person. They'd read her thoughts; they knew her. They knew her better than any person she'd even talked to or seen. Better than her mother, better than Charlie, better than Colin, better than Blaise. There were things in that diary she'd never told a soul, and this person knew it.

Ginny sighed, picking the book back up and setting it in her lap as she sat on the North Window seat. She tickled the end of the quill under her nose, thinking about what she would say to this person. She would have to be articulate, try not to sound angry, and be, if possible, friendly. No, friendly wasn't her. Well, she was friendly, but it wasn't inbred in her personality.

The quill scratched across the creamy page.

* * *

_The Three-Minute Salutation_

September 29, 1996

Reader,

The salutation alone on this note took me three minutes. "Friend" didn't seem accurate. I don't even know your name. "To whom it may concern" would imply that I had no idea who was going to read it. And while I don't know your name, I know you have access to Inverted Tower as I do.

I have come to realize that a person is reading this journal of mine, and you are probably they. I was surprised at first, a little hurt that my privacy was being intruded upon. I moved past that into who you could possibly be. I don't know you. I'm no detective, I don't flatter myself. All I have are a few turned pages and dirty fingerprints on white paper.

I think, since you know everything about me, it is only fair that I know something about you. Your name may be too personal; I've found they're very personal to me. You could tell me a bit about yourself; I don't mind if you use this book. It was, after all, meant to be written in.

Perhaps, if you're not too frightened of my overt personality, we could meet in person. Not yet – no, that wouldn't do at all. But I think I would like to meet the person that knows more about me than any other person alive. You have my sincerest promises that I will not be angry with you. Truth be told, I am intrigued more than upset.

So like my salutation, my closing takes me a while to ponder over. I believe I've found something appropriate.

Yours,

Writer

* * *

_The Modesty of a Thief_

Draco closed the book, rubbing his eyes and blinking a few times. He'd read the entry maybe fifteen times. Each time he read it, he hit himself mentally. He should have known to clean the pages. Looking at his fingers, he sighed. They were dirty from Quidditch practice. He read it yet again.

She had not concealed her handwriting. She trusted him already. It was beautiful handwriting, not huge and swirly like most girls, but elegant and professional. It was a writer's hand. But then, she did say she was a poet. It didn't really surprise him.

What had surprised him was how well she reacted to the knowledge that someone was reading her diary. He would have been furious. Draco berated himself for not being a better judge of character. Of course she wouldn't be upset. She would be intrigued. It wasn't her personality to lash out uncontrollably. It wasn't her personality to want to punish the person reading her private thoughts.

It only made Draco want to meet her more. But he respected her more when she said she didn't want to meet him yet. It was smart, a good move on her part. She wanted to judge him through what he wrote, how he displayed himself. Something drew him back to what she had said earlier. It was about how the Japanese had sent poems to the ones they had interest in. If he wrote back, it would be like he was courting her. On some level, Draco knew she must know that. And on some level, Draco didn't care.

Draco frowned. He wouldn't reply yet. No, he would wait a little while, act nonchalant. He berated himself again. She would see through that. She knew he read it often, not just once in a while. She would know he was trying to play it cool and think him like the rest of the slobbering idiots that probably went after her. He would have to be natural; yes, she could see through phonies just like he could. But also, he would have to monitor what he said, not lead her on. She wouldn't like that either.

The problem was Draco found he did want to lead her on. But not to just lead her, he wanted to meet her. He wanted to meet and talk to her more than he had ever wanted something in his life.

Sighing, he took out a quill and began to write.

Writer,

Your designations as Writer and Reader seemed so appropriate that I decided to use them myself.

I must first apologize, I think. It is true, I read your journal, and I read it often. I am captivated by your words and opinions. I even find myself agreeing with you sometimes.

There are so many things I would like to say, but I confess I'm not the writer you are, nor am I as articulate. I'll try, however.

I would like to meet you, as you would me, but find that waiting would probably be a better idea. I think it wise you should get to know me, at least a little. No names, however; I apologize that I'm not willing to give it away just yet.

So where to start? I don't really know. Telling you my life story seems a bit forward, but you should at least know what has made me the way I am. And who has made me. We should begin with my father. He is a cold man with little love for anything but money and power. I detest him to the point of disgust. He doesn't like me, and I don't like him, but we aren't malevolent to each other. My mother is the one person I feel I can really talk to, perhaps with the exception of you. She was always kind to me, though very, very, very sad. I grew up alone, it would barely have mattered whether I was an only child or not. I confess to not having very many friends, nor people that can stand my presence. I also confess to liking very few people.

I don't know what else to write. I have a few questions for you; however, the one that comes to my mind first is your dreams. You seem to dream a lot and have a talent for retaining other people's dreams, if I read correctly. You seem to have many secrets, but no one to tell them to. I hope you will trust in me.

I leave you with one thing: I will be waiting rather impatiently for your response.

Sincerely,

Reader

Draco put the diary down on the window seat, sighing as he slid his quill into his bag. It was rough, but then he never claimed to be a great writer. He had sounded curious and sincere. Reflecting, Draco found he had been completely sincere when writing it. He felt free almost, as if some great pressure was lifted off his chest.

And the one complete truth was that he was impatient for her reply.


	5. Writing

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER FIVE:**

**Writing**

* * *

October 2, 1996

Reader,

I'm overjoyed that you decided to respond to my note. I rather hoped you would. I feared I would have to move my hiding spot if you hadn't responded. I would have doubted your character had you just tried to read without any response. That's half the fun, critiquing the work.

As for your writing skills, well, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You write beautifully. Not perfectly, but there is always room for improvement. When I become a writer, I know I will have a long way to go. But thank you for the compliment.

Your life reminds me of someone I know...or rather someone I'm aware of. I think I know them better than they would like, if they knew, of course. I don't pity them, and I don't pity you. You seem like you wouldn't accept pity from another person. I don't deal well with pity either, though I know many people do.

I think I would prefer hatred to pity; at least hate is real. People that pity are fake;

I've found that out. But then, you already know my views of fake people. I think my loathing of pity stems from the fact that I don't believe it is an actual emotion. Hate is an emotion, a very strong emotion. It takes a lot of feeling to hate. Just like love, it takes a lot of feeling. Pity though? No. You can pity a person you have never met, thus it if forged, thus it is fake, thus you are accused of feeling something fake, and thus you are fake. I feel I can justly draw this conclusion about pity and people who "feel" it.

Oh, how did you like that? You get to hear my first rant of the year. I fear I may go on several of these tangents. Pay them no mind if you want. Most of them are me babbling endlessly anyway. Just don't get me started on poetry, Keats in particular.

With no hesitation,

Writer

* * *

October 4, 1996

Writer,

I don't think "paying no mind" to your tangents would be productive at all. Especially if they are about emotions. I will admit I don't understand many emotions. You seem to be well acquainted with them, however, and I wish to learn from you.

I suppose you could say I've never really loved another person, not truly at least. I love my mother, I think. It is hard for me to tell, the thought of loving was weaned from me quite thoroughly at an early age by my dear father. He is not a good man. Not a good man at all. He took that from me, and I am angry. I'm confused too.

I too wish to love, however long it may take me.

I concur with your views on pity. I detest pity. It always puts me on edge. Some would pity me, I think you are right. I wouldn't accept it, however. Pity is one of the things weak people give, for they have nothing else. Either that or very strong people, for they have enough to spread around. I don't pity the strong ones. I don't pity the weak ones either, though.

The weather is getting cooler.

I only wrote that to get away from the topic of pity; it was making me uncomfortable. But it has been nice weather. Especially for October. Good Quidditch weather.

I don't have anything else. I think that's why I started talking about weather and Quidditch. Kind of silly.

Thoroughly embarrassed,

Reader

* * *

October 8, 1996

Please excuse the delay. I've had trouble getting away for the past couple of days. It happens like that sometimes, I think. Sometimes, all I'll have to do is go up (or down, I'm rather confused about how Inverted Tower works) into the tower and write away the day. Other times, I can't believe how busy my adolescent life is.

I don't have any disillusionment on the fact that I'm still young. Some of my "peers" claim to be "fully grown and independent witches/wizards." I often have to choke back laughter. Fifteen and no direction hardly constitutes as "independence." They make me so angry sometimes. Angry, maybe, is an exaggeration. I find them amusing.

You wish to be educated on emotions? (Rather random, I know. But you know I am very, very random, so you shouldn't be upset.) Well, I can't say that's a request I've heard often. Actually, you could call that a request I've never heard.

Don't feel awkward or anything! I've just never heard it put that way. At the risk of falling into categorizing people, I'm going to take a guess you are Slytherin.

You don't have to answer that unasked question. Actually, I would prefer it if you didn't. I always pictured Slytherins as rather unemotional. I know a Slytherin, though I cannot reveal their name, and they are rather cold. I still like them though and feel fortunate to know them.

But as for educating you on emotions? I don't know. It may be out of my realm of expertise. Well, if I have a realm yet. I could try. You can always try. Love may be a hard one. Even people educated in love would have a hard time describing that one, I think. You get in the whole logistics of "true love" and "predestined love" and "first love" and then "love at first sight" and then you have to enter the territory of "loving and losing" and "the ability to truly love." I get lost on just plain love, much less the notion of soul mates and etc.

Other emotions I have a fair level of understanding of. I consider my family life to be more or less happy, and I have experienced some of the "finer" emotions, as I call them. I suppose I should explain the difference. I personally categorize feelings into three categories. The "rough" emotions are deep and primal, usually the strongest emotions. Love, hate, jealousy, competition, and fear I put in there. (As a note, there are many more dark emotions in "rough" emotions because they came first. Most people learn dislike before they learn like. Example: A baby learns the word "no" before "give." Dislike of something before the like of something. It happens all the time.) The "finer" emotions are what I feel are the more complex ones. It's rather hard to explain. I would categorize peace, melancholia, happiness, contentment, and obligation in the "finer" emotions, because you have to have experience with them to understand them. The third category is stupidly simple to understand. They are fake emotions, a.k.a. pity.

Oh, my time is up. Study calls to us all.

Apologetically,

Writer

* * *

October 12, 1996

Writer,

I can't tell you how much you've already taught me. Your explanation is something I've never heard, much less thought about. You are very wise, despite what you may think. No matter how much or little you may know about the subject of emotions, you are years ahead of me.

I have so many questions, but I will let you go in steps; I feel that is the best thing I can do right now.

A thought came to me while I was reading over your previous entries, and I would like to share it with you. You appear to have very many people who care about you, who would miss you if you were to die (not that I'm considering it myself). And it dawned upon me; who would care if I died? You have these Painters, and Butterfly, and Stag, and perhaps this Jewel, but I have my mother and, I like to think, you. So if I died tomorrow, you wouldn't even know who I was, though you would mourn me. My mother wouldn't even be allowed to mourn because of my father.

So this got me thinking more. Well, more about death at least. I came to the conclusion that I fear death very much. It took me a very long while to admit that to myself, but somehow it only took me seconds to write it to you. I don't want to die; it is the one thing I fear. It reminded me that it was a "rough" emotion, at least by your system of categorization. I looked over the things you listed as rough and decided to add one of my own. Revenge.

I want revenge. I feel that emotion very well. Just like I feel hate, competition and, I'll admit, jealousy. But who I want revenge on doesn't matter; you don't need to know. The fact is I feel it. I feel the "rough" emotions, not the "fine."

That scares me too.

Confused and disturbed,

Reader

* * *

October 16, 1997

Reader,

It took me three drafts to write this to you, Reader. I hope it answers your questions and soothes your confusion.

Emotions are fickle things, greasy and slippery. You think you can find an explanation for them, and then the concept goes awry, sucking you into another dimension of feelings. It's happened to me a thousand times. I'll tell you a story, though it is kind of embarrassing.

I was very young when my crush developed (upon who and how young don't matter). It was very strong and very young, though it would grow. I was convinced, at a very delicate age, this was the only man for me for the rest of my life. In a word, I was in love.

Or at least I thought I was. I met him for the first time, and my feelings grew. Every time I saw him, my heart skipped a beat. Every time he looked at me, I wanted to keel over and die a happy prepubescent little girl. And yet, he didn't return my feelings.

"Why?!? Why!?!" I would scream silently into the night. The whys and whys just built and built. He liked another girl; that is why. He didn't love me; he loved her.

And that was when it hit me. I wasn't in love. I was in love with being in love, if there is such an inane confusion. I look back now and think I was young and stupid. Then I realized all healthy little girls get fancies like that, all of us. I wasn't so hurt after a while; it began to heal.

Slowly I began to realize I didn't need to be in love with him; I didn't need him at all. And I found someone, and though I didn't love him, I appreciated him, and he appreciated me. Not too long ago, we broke up, and though, yet again, I was hurt, it didn't hurt as much, because I wasn't in love. Don't get me wrong, I loved him, the boy I went out with, and I still do, but I wasn't in love with him, if that makes any sense.

It may or may not. Especially to you, no offense. Now the boy and I are very best friends. There are other stories about those two boys and boys like them I have known. All girls have stories like mine or similar. Hell, maybe they don't. I like to think they do.

But this whole story just tells me I don't really know any emotion, and I don't think anyone really does, not truly. Humans like to classify things, to put them in places. It helps them understand. So at a level, they do, and it does give them some level of goodness, a higher level than they had before.

So when you say you don't understand it, I concur. No one may ever understand it. But then, that is the way of things.

Sincerely,

Writer

* * *

October 19, 1996

Writer,

I confess to reading your latest entry twenty-seven times and am still slightly confused.

I make but one short request: Tell me another story please.

Apologetically,

Reader

* * *

October 22, 1996

Reader,

Another story, he says. Yet again you force me to draft and draft again and again to give you a good and perfect story. Well, the man wants a story. I'll assume you mean my first story was good, but it can get better. You flatter me. Your mere asking flatters me.

Another story, well, let's hear a story about confusion.

Stag, as I will call the man that I believed I loved, is the first subject in Confusion. The other I will tell you about is Painters, the boy with whom I went out and am now very good friends.

Stag stayed away from me for years, barely looking my way, for he was embarrassed, and probably rightly so, that I loved him and he never felt the same way. I can't give you too much insight to his feelings; I don't know him well. Funny how I was in love with someone I never met, and I couldn't love someone I knew for years, Painters, I mean.

Anyway, Stag came to me, this year actually, and made me think. Love really is the most slippery of emotions. Stag asked me if I would like to go to Hogsmeade with him that weekend. My feelings about Hogsmeade are that only people who don't know anything go there for a date. The whole idea is just...just too simple and fake. I can't clearly say to you what I mean.

I told him I wasn't quite over my failed relationship with Painters, which wasn't strictly true. I just didn't want to lead on Stag; he didn't deserve it, no matter how much pain he caused me. And on some level, I wasn't quite over Painters. He was in love with me; I figured that out easily enough. But I couldn't love him back. There is some high about having someone's love, or at least I think there is. I've only received an immature form of it. I think I miss it too.

I'll assume you recall the night I became inebriated and wrote in this diary. I recall it. I also recall saying some rather confusing things about a mysterious "him" saying he only loved me as a sister. It was Stag. And it didn't hurt. Well, a little, but only a little. As it turned out, he was the one leading me on. I became rather upset with him. But then, I couldn't be really angry with me...he was my "brother." Did you catch the sarcasm?

So I move onto my next experience in Confusion. It has to deal with Painters. As I told you, he loved me. But I didn't tell you the reason why he broke up with me. I should explain that Painters is a very strong person, no matter how other people see him. He doesn't like to be played with, and he is very supportive. He would have supported me with all my problems my whole life had I let him. I am thankful I didn't.

Anyway, back to my experience. He told me he broke up with me because I didn't care enough about the relationship. It was true to a point. I did care about him, just not that way. As for the relationship...it's embarrassing to say, but I was barely involved. I sat next to him at meals and helped him when I could in classes, and of course we had a physical relationship, but we never went very far. So when he broke up with me, I took it as we should just be friends. I thought we were – and are now – much better at being friends than being a couple.

But then something happened, not three weeks ago, that confused me more than Stag. Painters kissed me. Maybe I should set that up a bit. I was very tired and, well, bitchy one day. I yelled at some people; then I yelled at Painters. I felt so bad I burst into tears, publicly, and Painters took me up to his dorm, clearing out the inhabitants easily.

After he tried his best to comfort me, he kissed me. It wasn't a bad kiss, but it felt rather like I was kissing someone related to me. Not like I've ever done something like that before, but it is what I assumed it would feel like. He apologized profusely, and I let him explain himself. He told it like this: "You are the most beautiful woman most men will ever hope to see, and at the same time you scare them."

Fantastic. I scare boys away. Glorious. I thought it was just my brothers.

So you understand my feelings about love yet? I hope the stories helped; they were great learning points for me. Maybe my failed life will help you.

But now, I think is time for you to tell me a story, Reader.

Good luck,

Writer

PS – Take your time and don't feel pressured. I'm sure it will be a good story.

* * *

October 28, 1996

Writer,

I decided to take your advice with a grain of salt. It turned out writing a story was much harder than it seemed, and I took your advice for what it was: Really good advice.

I fear it isn't quite as good as your stories, but it is a try. I know you to be not the squeamish type, so when I tell this to you, I trust you won't defile our little book here.

I was, like all of us, eleven when I received my letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I was eleven when I first saw my true enemy. And I was eleven when I first realized my three hatreds.

The first, a rather easy one to explain, is being lied to.

The second, however, takes a bit of explanation. I will not conceal from you that my father isn't the kindest of men. He is evil, and I truly hate him. But for the first time in my life, I had methods to fight back. I had been given my first wand; I won't tell you what type, it isn't important. I had been given my first method of killing the one man who made my life and the life of my mother miserable for as long as I remember.

One night, a day or two before the start of term, my father decided, that once again, it was time for my mother to learn her place. He beats her, not often enough for it to be called planned, but once is too much. That was the first time I ever did anything about it. A small curse I learned, nothing potent or very powerful. I'm actually proud it did anything at all.

It gave my mother time to get away; though I'm not sure it helped her later. He beat me that night; he has this...this weapon...he carries with him. No specifics, I know. But he beat me with it. He gave me a scar no one can see, but I will always remember.

It was then, the moment, looking at that cut for the first time, I stared into the eyes of the man I truly hated, my first hate, if there is such a thing, and I didn't cry. I haven't since, not once.

I will move on, for the pain of the hate still haunts me. It is still in me, waiting, watching.

The third hatred is much less than the first two. I guess you could call it a petty hatred, but it is deep for more than one reason. No specific name will be said, but we will call this person the bastard. He doesn't even get capitalized.

I met him in Diagon Alley, though I didn't know it was him at the time. He rejected my offer of friendship, not once, but twice. You must understand; friendship isn't something I ever desired. But somehow, in that room with the bastard, I wanted to be his friend. I was still hurt from my father, trying to convince myself there were good people out there. I was proven wrong by the first person I met.

Nice.

I'll admit I never was the most pleasant of children. I was, until then, my father's son. I still am in public. But I don't think I went about trying to get friends right. So I got left with nothing, nothing worth talking about anyway. I was rejected, and it hurt, I'll admit it.

Over the years, my hatred was fueled by other petty things, the memory that I had once wanted a friend and I was denied. Don't get me wrong. I don't simper around, trying to find my true friend, but things hurt still, I'm human. And rejection hurts everyone. As you were rejected by Stag, I was rejected by the bastard. Though I let my feelings fester and rot into hatred. You let it go, which, in retrospect, I should have too.

This is becoming too hard. I think I'll stop now. I want to be left alone. I've never done this before, and it's like opening old wounds and letting someone spit salt into them. Disturbing visual, I know.

Reader

* * *

October 29, 1996

Reader,

I won't say anything other than write when you feel you can. I will wait for you to be ready again.

With hope,

Writer

* * *

November 9, 1996

Writer,

Forgive me, please, for my delay of response. I feel rather foolish now, having looked at all the time that passed. I don't know how lonely you felt or what you went through. I apologize again.

But forgiveness is short lived. I think I want to meet you.

With hope,

Reader

* * *

November 10, 1996

Reader,

At the risk of sounding overly cautious and uncomfortable, I respectfully decline. I'm not ready. I feel, deep within me, I'm not ready to meet you yet.

I'm not angry with you, please don't think that. I don't know if I could be mad at you. You've only told me the truth or what my mind perceives as the truth. You've never misled me into anything. Without actually meeting you, I trust you more than any one single person. I feel I've known you for a long while now.

And yet I'm not ready. I'm sorry, I truly am, but I am not ready.

I hope this doesn't make things uncomfortable. I don't feel uncomfortable; neither should you.

So perhaps I should update you on some things. I don't know if you picked it up, but I pose for Painters when he paints. He has two friends, whose names I can't disclose, and I let them use me as a model. Painters is trying to build a portfolio to get into some art university. He's been making it for years, and I've known about it. He asked me one day to help him, and though his request was rather odd, I complied.

I pose nude for them, to let them see the workings of the human body. It doesn't make me uncomfortable; it is for art. Art is one of the things I truly believe in. I'm sure if I, for some reason, needed a nude male model for my poetry, they would be happy to help. I don't think that will happen.

But back to the update. My brother found the photographs. They took some my third or fourth time posing, so I didn't have to come in all the time. Painters is quite a good photographer as well. So my brother found them, along with his girlfriend and Stag. They weren't pornographic, not at all! But the fact that I was a younger sister, nude, in front of a bunch of boys – well, three – made him very uncomfortable. Uncomfortable to the point of anger, I suppose. He beat up Painters, all three of them. Single handed, actually. At some level, I think I'm proud. But that level is very, very, very far down. Very.

In fact, it was so far down that I became very upset with him and burned him. Quite literally. A gift from my mother.

I know we agreed on no specifics, but I feel I can trust you. I learned this only this year, and no one but my mother, my father, Dumbledore, you, and I know about it. When my mother was pregnant with me, she got stuck in a Meeting. It was Wind and Fire. I was gifted with hybrid genes, making me perhaps the first human, Wind, and Fire combination in history. It is called being Elemental; a few other people are like me, but they are made purely from Elements.

I don't know how much you know about it, but what I know is Elements have the ability to create children, babies, that look human but aren't. They are different in many ways but not appearance, at least I don't think. I've never met a true Elemental, so I wouldn't know. But as I've explained, I am Wind and Fire and human.

I don't know how smart it was to tell you that. Dumbledore says I am in great danger, that I should be protected from something. He won't tell me what though. I must be too fragile.

But my brother. I almost killed him. I mean I really almost killed him. Thankfully, Madam Pomfrey got there in time and was able to save him quickly. He was back in school the very next day because of her quickness and skill.

I lost my temper, and I lost it because he was ignorant and refused to see. It is one of the few things I truly hate. Ignorance is no excuse, and the ability to reason and be reasonable is something humans are born with. People who don't use this ability make me sick, and I can say without pause that I hate them.

I think I want to stop writing now. I'm crying, you see, and the paper will get ruined.

In shame,

Writer

* * *

November 13, 1996

Writer,

I think I'll have to go one step at a time, very slowly.

Firstly, I realize you feel meeting me would jeopardize your well being in some way. I understand and am not hurt. I can wait. I am, for the most part, patient.

Though, as for your second matter, I think more caution on my part needs to be exercised.

I did figure out you were a model for someone, a nude model. I commend you. You must either be very brave or very confident. I suspect it is a bit of both. I think doing something like that for art is selfless and something good people do.

Art is, in my opinion, the only redeeming thing in our culture. When all else is dead, all of us have been extinguished by war and hatred, one thing will remain. If that one thing is anything, it will be art. Music, writing, and physical art. It will outlast us all and smile among the few good things humans have done. Even the Muggles have it right when it comes to art. Everyone has it right when it comes to art.

This brings me to the next part of what I want to say.

You blame yourself, don't you?

I don't know what you blame yourself for, but it is something. And it is big. It isn't just the incident with your brother; there is another thing, a bigger thing. I won't ask you about it; it isn't my place.

I just have one thing to say: Stop. You can't blame yourself for everything that goes wrong in your life. I can tell you do it, don't even try denying it. It isn't just with big things, little things too. It isn't always about you. (Which, by the way, is a rather selfish way to think; something people often accuse me of, so I know what I'm talking about.) Thus it can't always be your fault. Take responsibility for some things, but not things you can't touch.

With your brother, however, the blame was mostly yours. I won't shade it for you; you are a strong person. You should have controlled your temper and your power.

Believe it or not, I'm proficient in understanding the workings of Meetings and Elementals. You see, my mother is a Wind Elemental. I, as her son, have some control over the element Wind, though I am very weak, I admit. It is a skill you need to develop. I've yet to have the need because I'm not very powerful. You, unfortunately, sound like you have more power than you know what to do with. You must train yourself, start small and work your way up.

This is my advice to you, Writer.

One more thing. I think you should try and forgive yourself. I don't know for what, and I don't think you should tell me yet, but at least forgive yourself for your brother; then he can forgive you, and you won't feel too bad.

Sincerely,

Reader

* * *

November 17, 1996

Reader,

Very wise words, very wise, indeed. I only fear I can't do it. My character permits it, but my mind won't let me. My mother always said, "When the mind is in doubt, the heart is in pain. Ease the pain in the heart however you can, for we are nothing without heart."

My mother is a very wise woman, I think. If I healed my heart, maybe forgave myself for all the things I've done (and you may not believe it, but it is a rather extensive list); then maybe I can find peace of mind. Maybe. Peace of mind would be nice.

I don't know how though.

Sorry this is so short. I'm rather tired. I haven't been sleeping right.

Would you mind telling me a story? I don't think I care if it is dark or not.

Apologetically,

Writer

PS – Funny that the "writer" asks the "reader" to tell them a story.

* * *

November 21, 1996

Writer,

I would be happy to tell you a story. I warn you, however, it isn't at all about forgiveness, and you probably shouldn't follow what I did at all. It's a story, true, but just a story.

I have always been told I am the best at everything, that I, because of my lineage, am better than those around me. It is the thing little boys like to hear, that they are better than those they know. It is a form of competition, I think.

The hardest lesson I have ever learned is losing. I hate to lose, not as much as other things, but I hate it. I don't like feeling inferior; it is a solid part of my character that I don't ever see changing.

So, imagine if you will, a boy, not particularly liked, more feared than anything, and highly competitive. This boy is me. I won't write specifics, but let's call the thing I was competing in Quidditch; it is the worldwide language witches and wizards communicate in. That and art.

The bastard and I both play the same (hypothetical) position. We are both very good, both very competitive, both very much in contempt of each other. He always beats me. No matter what I do. I can cheat, I can lie, and do a myriad of things to ensure my victory, or at least his defeat, and nothing happens. It always goes right for him! It never goes awry! Anything he wants, he's got it. Anything he says, it happens. All his wishes and commands are met, and it MAKES ME SICK!

I suppose it always starts as jealousy, because I won't deny being jealous of the bastard. He makes me angry enough to kill. Maybe someday I will kill him. No, I won't shield you from any of my selfish and sick desires. I'm still partly my father's son. You can't live with him for years and years and not become partly like him. I only hope I don't ever become him.

This story isn't much of a story, is it?

No. More of an insight to me, not like you needed any more. I hope this suffices. I'm kind of angry now. Write back though, Writer. I need to hear what you have to say.

Yours,

Reader

* * *

November 24, 1996

Reader,

Tell me another.

Please.

Yours,

Writer

* * *

November 28, 1996

Writer,

As usual, I cannot deny you. The lady desires a story. I'll make it a real story this time. A good story. Well, maybe not bright and happy, but it's the happiest memory I have.

My mother, as I told you, is Elemental, a Wind. I should describe her to you; for this vision, I want to create a complete picture. My mother is aristocratic. She is tall and willowy of build. She has long fingers that play the piano beautifully. Her hair is very, very blonde, her eyes are very, very blue, and her skin is very, very pale. I think she is beautiful.

She isn't overly powerful for an Elemental, but she always made me happy. She has a way of walking and being that is different from everything I have ever experienced, or maybe will experience.

There was this one time when I was very young, six or seven, I think. The way she touched me made me feel loved. I always thought she had a lot of love in her but also a lot of sadness and a lot of pain. She never pitied herself though. She was the one that brought me up right.

But back to six or seven. I was sick, sick with something the nurses and doctors living in my father's change purse couldn't fix. I had some disease; a cancer of power, they told my parents. It meant I had an unreleased part of my Showing. My father's side of the family were early Showers, but not repetitive. Apparently, the Showing power I had used when I was young hadn't spent itself and had gone cancerous. It wasn't common, but then, it wasn't uncommon on my father's side.

My mother sat by me day by day, her fingers and hands always touching me, making me feel warm and loved. I don't want you to get the wrong picture, she wasn't perverted or anything; she was a good, healthy person. But it was part of her power, her cooling, healing power.

One day, the first day of spring when the air was still slightly cold and the sky pale, she took me outside, telling my father we'd be back in the late afternoon right before supper. It was a still day when we went out; the wind wasn't singing in the trees like it usually did when my mother and I went outside.

I remember looking up at her, her crystalline blue eyes closed and her hair straight down her back. She smiled, the slightest of smiles, looked down at me, and whispered, "Let's go on a walk, love."

The house grounds are extensive, reaching for kilometers in all directions. We walked and walked and walked. We walked. After I couldn't, my mother carried me like I weighed nothing. I suppose I almost did. My mother isn't very strong physically, but by then, the cancer had made me skin and bone. She carried me for a long, long time.

Finally, near some thin and spindly trees, we stopped. By then, the wind was whistling symphonies in the spring air, whipping about us and almost pushing us forward. Then she stopped and put me down. I'll always remember what she said to me.

"Hush, love. The wind is singing to you. Can't you feel it? She's calling. I hear her all the time, and she calls to me. Someday, when you don't need me anymore, I'll give myself back to the Wind, my mother. I'll be very happy when that day comes, but very sad, too. Someday, the Wind will call you too, and you will know what you must do. Listen, love, can't you hear her? She loves me, and she loves you, too."

It was the first time my mother started telling me about my Elemental blood. I'll confess to you that I don't feel it; I may never, not for a long, long time yet. I don't think I've learned how to listen correctly. Maybe, someday, when you and I meet, you can tell me.

Back to my story. I was standing there, right next to my mother, and the strangest thing began to happen. The wind picked up, flying about us madly. I began to feel something. As the wind built, I looked up at my mother. Her skin was practically glowing, her eyes were an unearthly shade of blue, glowing and sparkling like a metallic silver-aqua. The wind rushed around us, and that thing inside of me moved. I felt a flowing sensation in my blood, winding around my very cells.

My mother had cured my cancer, using the powers of the Wind to cleanse the cancer from me. It was the purest I've ever felt in my life.

Then I went home, and the most terrible thing I can recall happened. I didn't figure it out until much, much later in my life. I don't think I'll ever understand it, but I've figured out his secret. The dirty little secret of my father. It makes me sick to admit it, admit it to anyone, including myself. But it is there, and it is part of the story. And you have to understand this is part of me. I want you to understand me.

I came home with my mother; we were home earlier than she thought we would be because the wind practically flew us to our house. I never remember running so fast in my life. It surprised me that my mother was so fast. But then, she is a creature of the wind, and the wind moves very fast. On a side note, my mother played Seeker for her house. I trust you won't try to research that to keep up our little game. It isn't in your character.

Anyway, we came home earlier than scheduled. When we walked in the house, I only found it slightly odd that my father wasn't in his study; he was always there, doing work. We had only just begun to look for him when my mother froze in her spot, her face deathly pale, more so than normal. She grabbed me around the wrist, and I thought she was going to break it. I was still very weak, but I was ready.

As she pulled me around the corner, I heard the footsteps of my father coming down a marble hall. The only marble hall in that part of the house was the one leading to his and my mother's bedroom. The problem was he wasn't alone. Small and quick footsteps followed him. I couldn't see them in the mirror opposite me, not yet, but I could hear them.

"And you'll be a good boy and not tell anyone," my father said in his sickeningly cool and sweet voice. "Otherwise, I'll have to tell your parents you've been a very naughty boy."

"N – n – no, M – m – master," a small, squeaking voice said.

My mother automatically clamped her strong fingers over my ears. It was no use; I could see it in the mirror. She didn't notice because she was looking around the corner. I could see the panic in her eyes reflected in the mirror.

But I could see something else reflected in that same mirror.

It was my father and a boy perhaps three years older than me. He was very thin, and he had dark hair and dark eyes. He looked so scared when my father touched him. I didn't understand the touch then, but I remember it making me uncomfortable. It certainly made the boy uncomfortable. But through training or fear, his emotions only showed in his face; his body didn't flinch at all when my father's hands ran up and down his form caressingly.

"Now go home, little one," my father cooed, pushing the small boy into the fireplace.

I could almost hear my mother's heart beating. She was trying not to breathe too hard, trying not to give us away. She visibly relaxed when my father's footsteps were heard walking the marble hallway back to his room. She sighed when she heard a door slam, turning and kneeling beside me.

Her eyes were overflowing with tears, her hands shaking violently. Slowly, she pulled out her jewel. I remember it like it was yesterday. The jewel is the same color as her eyes. It was crafted out of the wind, a raw jewel, wind-beaten into a tear shape. She told me once a friend gave it to her. It fit her very well. She pulled it out of her shirt and kissed it.

"Kiss my jewel, love," she said in a shaking voice. "Kiss my jewel for luck and my cheek for love, baby."

I kissed her jewel, her cheek, and then wrapped my skinny arms around her neck. "I love you, baby," she whispered brokenly into my neck. "Don't you ever forget that! I'll never let him get you, I don't care what debt I owe."

I must have spent an hour like that, holding her, because when the elves came and said it was time for dinner, the sun was sinking in the sky.

I will never forget that day, never forget what that boy looked like, and never forget what my mother said, nor how I had to hold her and love her. As she protected me from my father, I protected her from him as well, in different ways.

I think that's enough storytelling. I'm tired now, and I've been writing for hours.

Yours,

Reader

* * *

December 2, 1996

Reader,

I'll admit I cannot feel your pain. I don't know what it feels like to have a father as despicable as yours. But I have a mother like yours. Not exactly, I don't think, but she loves me like yours does. You need to remember that. She loves you and will never stop. As my mother loves me and will never stop. She raised you right; she raised you to do the good thing and to try and love, no matter what your father is like.

I am truly sorry for what happened. But as always, I don't pity you. This is something that obviously shaped you, and I understand why you needed to tell me it. I understand why you needed me to know. What's more, I accept it. I don't think you'd be the person I've come to respect if it hadn't happened.

Accept that I don't hate you for your father, because I know your character would think that if I left it unsaid. I'm not trying to brush you off, really I'm not. But I've been here for a long time, re-reading and re-reading your entry for the past few hours, and I'm very tired.

I'm happy to report I've gained some power over the dreams. I can filter them away from me quite successfully. Sometimes a dream slips though, but it can't be helped.

And now I'm rambling.

Goodnight, Reader.

With love,

Writer

PS – It took me a while to write the "with love" ending. Don't let it creep you out; I think we are familiar enough for it to be only natural.

* * *

December 5, 1996

Writer,

Your turn again. I want a story.

Yours,

Reader

* * *

December 10, 1996

Reader,

It took me a very long time to write this, a very long time indeed. Studying for finals didn't help any either. But what I am about to tell you is something I've never told anyone, something I've always kept to myself. Some people think they know the story, but they were never there, not the whole time. They were always at the edges. But I, I was in the very center, living the hell every sane person would fear.

This is why I am the way I am; the same reason this is my first diary in years. I will tell you the whole story, uncensored, for I trust you very much. I know I said no specifics, but I doubt you could appreciate the name anyway. It is the only name I will ever say in this book.

Once upon a time (please excuse the cliché), there was a very young girl (for entertainment purposes, we'll call her Girl). She was a normal little girl with wide eyes for the world and a sense of curiosity found in most younglings. Her common sense was lacking in so many ways I'm not sure how she got past three years of life. She did, but it landed her in hell for one year.

Deep down, Girl was lonely. She was very lonely. Even though Girl wasn't an only child and had plenty of playmates growing up, she never felt that anyone could truly understand her. She went on with this theory until one day a boy came into her life.

This boy's name was Tom. He was a very nice boy, older than Girl, wiser and more experienced. Girl was weary, however. In the end, to her eternal shame, she was captured by Tom. Not physically, Tom couldn't do that, not then. But he captured her mind.

It all began when she wrote in a small, inconspicuous book with nothing but T.M. Riddle written on it. It wasn't an extraordinary book by any means; it was plain and smelled slightly aged. But inside the book, there was the boy, Tom.

Technically, the boy wasn't "inside" the book; his soul was. He was very anxious to come out, as Girl would soon learn. But for the time being, Tom was the perfect friend.

The thing about Tom was he could listen. He could listen better than any person Girl had ever met. Being outshone by countless siblings, no one to tell her problems to, Girl took to this mild-mannered, soft-spoken, open-eared boy automatically. They became the best of friends, telling each other secrets they'd never told anyone. They were more than best friends; they were soul mates. As Girl found, that was a sick thing indeed.

It all started with simple questions. Tom wanted to know about a boy Girl liked. (And yes, this boy was Stag.) It was innocent enough. What does he look like? Is there anything remarkable about him? Who were his parents? Who are his friends?

Girl couldn't find anything wrong with the questions, besides the fact that Tom was overly interested in Stag. So she answered them patiently, telling Stag's story, or as much as she knew of it, to Tom. Girl was very polite, not wanting her new friend to be upset with her. If she didn't know something about Stag, she would go find out. She went out of her way to make Tom happy.

Once though, just once, Tom asked her to do something odd. Something Girl found utterly repulsive and wrong. I cannot tell you what it is, but suffice to say it made Girl's toes curl. But Tom nagged, coerced, guilted, and yelled until Girl did what he asked.

And no one found out. And all was okay.

But it got Girl thinking. Real friends wouldn't do that. Her brother had many friends, and he never had to do things like that. Her brother had good friends, Girl decided. But it made her think again. She shouldn't have to do things like that. Friendship wasn't a system of checks and balances; it was a partnership, a thing that involved two people who cared for each other and liked being around each other.

(On a side note, I've heard a very good quote, though I forget the author now. "Never apologize; your enemies won't believe you, and your friends don't need it." I recall apologizing many, many times to Tom.)

Girl came to the conclusion that she and Tom weren't friends. In fact, Girl came to the conclusion she didn't even like Tom, much less want to do things for him. So she decided to stop. But things are always, as Girl learned, easier said than done.

One day, when she was feeling very brave, Girl took the diary with Tom in it, and she threw it into a place no one should ever find it.

But they did.

And it was the worst thing Girl could have ever imagined.

Stag found it, and Stag found the secret of Tom, that he wrote back, and Girl knew Stag would be in trouble.

So Girl stole. For the first time in her whole life, Girl stole. She invaded Stag's room, rummaged around and took Tom back where she could watch him closely, keep Stag from him and keep Stag safe. It was hard, looking at the diary day after day, knowing Tom was in there, waiting patiently for her to open up and start writing again.

Part of Girl wanted to. She wanted a friend still; she wanted a friend who would love and care for her like she'd envisioned true friendship was like. All the things she wanted came rushing back to her, and she gave in to Tom and the diary.

Girl began again, writing more furiously and vigorously than ever before. She told Tom things, and he listened, taking in what she said and giving her advice and comfort. She wrote and wrote and wrote; most days until her fingers were black with ink and sore from the pressure she'd placed on the quill. She wrote out her hopes and dreams, innermost desires and prayers, fears and thoughts, opinions and truths.

She wrote out her soul. It took a long time, a very long time indeed. She spent more than fifteen hours a day writing; in class, between class, during lunch, at night, and whenever else she could. She sneaked away to write, hiding in dark corners and small hideaways.

And no one found her.

And it made her very sad.

She had no more will to resist Tom. She had been pouring her soul out, and though a strong soul it was, full of ancient magic, resisting was no use. Tom had too much of it to let Girl go. And he wanted more.

Then one day, when Girl was very weak and Tom was very strong, Tom came out of the book, taking a semi-physical form. He took Girl to a special place of his, a place I don't like to talk about and won't utter the name of here on this earth.

And in this place of death and decay, he left her to die.

Alone.

Just as Girl was feeling she could no longer go on, that she would surly die, a voice came, a very faint one. It spoke of many things, many things; this it said to Girl: "The greatest thing is to live and live well. Can you escape the prison/hell you've placed yourself in, little fire? Can you beat the evil inside of and around you?"

In reply, Girl whispered lowly, "I need help."

It seemed as though the voice smiled, if voices could do such a thing. "And you shall have it, little fire."

Then Girl woke and found she had received help. Looking into the eyes of her rescuer, Girl felt reborn. She felt thankful; she felt real.

Looking around her, Girl found the implements of Tom's destruction, and though on the outside she was crying, on the inside she was smiling vengefully. She wasn't done, not yet. Her rescuer wouldn't take her last bit of emotion from her, not even with his kind eyes. She wanted to inflict pain; she wanted to be repaid for her time in hell. She wanted her compensation.

But as with most things, the sensation passed or was nearly buried; Girl may never know. Girl moved on, taking only her memories with her, her memories and her pain.

Funny thing, my father calls me his angel. His angel.

I was reborn in Hell. My own personal Hell.

Angel born in Hell.

I like the lilt of that.

I hope I disturbed you, Reader, because I disturbed myself. Many things have happened since then, a great many things. I'll always remember the words of that voice. I've never forgot them.

When you said I have to forgive myself, you meant well. But could you forgive yourself for being so stupid? I almost killed people with my stupidity. And while I may not be the most advanced academic student, my inability to see right from wrong will never endanger people again. For you see, many, many people were in danger that year.

I can't make that mistake again. I think sometimes it translates into I can never make a mistake ever again. At those times, I just have to slap myself. Maybe you can do it for me.

Can you see now why I don't choose friends I can love or I think can love me back? I took a chance with you. I don't know you, but if I ever did love you, it would be very hard. I'm sure you could be a good friend, but I'm scared of it. I'm scared to feel. Deep down, just like you, I don't want to. But I do, because that is what people do. I move on, because that is what people do.

I don't know why I said those things. They were an afterthought. I don't know. Maybe I'm going mad. It seems probable to me.

Confused,

Writer

* * *

December 12, 1996

Writer,

I want to meet you.

Please.

With hope,

Reader

* * *

December 13, 1996

Reader,

Okay.

The twenty-second of December I will be at a small coffee shop called Emerson's Shoppe. It is on the northeast side of Diagon Ally. I will be sitting outside under an umbrella, wearing black.

I trust you will be there, for you will probably not spend break at the castle as I have been forced to. I have my ways of getting out of the castle, Reader; don't worry about me.

Since you will be gone the morning of the fourteenth, I hope you get this in time.

Yours,

Writer

* * *

December 14, 1996

Writer,

I will be there.

Dress warmly.

With love,

Reader

* * *

_Love Point, Part I_

Draco sighed as he closed the book. He had written on the very last page. They had filled the whole book. It was a book full of emotion and story, fate and hope. It meant more than any one thing to him; any measure of the imagination couldn't have created something worth more to him, not in a million years.

He had begun writing with the intention to seduce, to make this woman believe he needed her and would do anything for her. He had thought it would be easy not to be pulled in so, to be distant to a point of coldness deep inside him.

As it turned out, it was impossible for him. He couldn't lie to her! He couldn't say one false thing, mislead her or deceive her. It was impossible for him not to get pulled in. He had been captivated by her writings in the first place. Having her write to him and actually being able to write back was more beautiful than he had ever imagined.

It stirred something, something deep inside of him he didn't understand. It made him feel things, things he'd only imagined. Things he'd shunned once as small and insignificant. One line could send him laughing. One sentence could fill him with pain. One word could make him think more deeply than he ever had. One phrase could make him fall in love with her.

Yes, love.

He knew he felt something for her, and it was more than friendship. And as much as she talked about friendship, he knew she felt something too. It seemed, at times, her very words caressed him, cared for him, wanted him. He tried to tell her the same, not literally, but in between his lines.

He wanted to meet her, had since the beginning of November. He found, quite uncomfortably, that he was scared she would reject him. Draco was never rejected, especially not by girls. But she instilled that doubt in him, and it scared him. He didn't like admitting fear; it was like admitting defeat. Scared people didn't get ahead. Scared people didn't get the spotlight.

Scared people didn't love.

And Draco, deep down, knew he could love her.

So would he meet her?

Yes.

He would die before not fulfilling that promise.


	6. Well Met

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER SIX:**

**Well Met**

* * *

_Because Sometimes It Hurts, Part II_

Ginny turned to Blaise uneasily. "Why aren't you going home for break, Blaise?"

Blaise shrugged. "Didn't feel like it."

"Oh," Ginny replied. She re-crossed her legs and brushed the imaginary dust off of her skirt. The dank, old room was good for two things: privacy and quiet. But, Ginny didn't feel like being quiet, and she didn't feel like being alone. So when she found Blaise, she dragged him along with her under the pretense of wanting him to read some of her new poetry.

But as Blaise read her poetry, she couldn't sit still. Eventually, Blaise's midnight eyes looked at her, one eyebrow raised, and Ginny sighed.

"Spill," he said commandingly, closing her notebook.

Ginny smiled. "I'm going somewhere this break. Out of the castle. I'm going to meet someone very important to me."

Blaise's aristocratic eyebrow rose again. "I thought you were staying here for Christmas."

"I am," Ginny replied. "I'm sneaking out, and you're going to help me."

"Moi? Help?"

"Yes," Ginny said, taking one of Blaise's hands and putting it over her heart. "Do you feel that, Blaise? Do you feel it? That is my heart racing a thousand and two light years per hour because of a boy. Blaise, I think I'm in love."

Blaise took his hand from her chest and put it in both of his. Looking at it, seeming a little sad, he said, "The diary bloke?"

Ginny nodded, her heart beating faster and faster. "Yes. I finally told him I'll meet him."

"That could be dangerous," Blaise said in a low voice. "I'm not talking about getting caught; I can make sure you don't get caught. I'm talking about dangerous for you, Ginevra."

Ginny frowned. She had told Blaise everything, trusting him completely. She had told him about being an Elemental and a Dreamweaver. Blaise had actually been very helpful when it came to Dreamweaving. He let her experiment on him. He would sleep, and she would try to tell him what he was dreaming afterwards. He would sleep, and she would try to send him something. Sometimes it would work; other times it gave her a massive headache. He hadn't been able to help her much in the Elemental area, but then, she didn't know how to help herself.

Sometimes, Ginny reflected, she could make the fire do things. When she was very cold and the fire was dying, sometimes it would get bigger, and a small gust of warm wind would blow her way. It would always make her pass out; the amount of energy it took to do simple things was more than she expected.

"You know what I mean, Ginevra," Blaise said softly.

He looked at her, his normally hard eyes softer than usual, and Ginny sighed. "I have to meet him, Blaise. Haven't you ever been in love?"

Blaise turned from her, letting go of her hand. "Yes," he whispered. "And I'm very confused."

Ginny bit her lip and took hold of his hand again. "What happened?" she asked simply.

Blaise turned back to her and snorted. "What do you think? You happened, Ginevra. You happened."

Ginny let of his hand and frowned. "What do you mean, Blaise?"

Blaise stood violently, his chair flying back and hitting a dusty desk. He paced, knocking a few chairs out of the way as he ran his hands through his hair and said, "CHRIST, Ginevra! You just don't get it, do you?!? Can't you see what you do to every person you FUCKING TALK TO!?! You look at a person, just LOOK at them, and they crumble! Can't you see the looks, the stares, the awe? You glow with something no one's ever seen! And you don't know why people fall in love with you! You don't know why Colin still loves you! You've got to be the blindest person I know!"

Ginny had stood by then, her knees weak. She shook all over, her eyes beginning to water. Finally she just collapsed on the ground and clutched her stomach. "I'm sorry!" she wailed. "I'm sorry!"

She sat there shaking for a moment before she felt the soft hands on her shoulders, and she looked up at Blaise. His eyes were soft again, and he looked truly sorry.

"Ginevra," he said quietly to her. "Look at me."

She did.

"Ginevra," he repeated. "I'm not angry at you; you don't have to apologize. I'm angry at me. It isn't your fault; none of it is. Blame the gods...blame God! But don't blame yourself. Please. Please don't be angry with me. Don't be angry with yourself. Just...just hold me for a second. Please."

Ginny swallowed and threw her arms around Blaise, holding him tightly as she cried. Her grasped onto her, his strong arms almost stopping her breath. She heard him sob, and she cried harder.

Ginny didn't really know why she was crying; she suspected neither of them did. But with all the pressure of finals and love and everything, somewhere, both of them had become confused. Blaise most of all.

After a while, Blaise pulled back and grabbed a handkerchief, letting Ginny wipe her eyes and then using it himself. They sat there for a while, just looking at each other. In some ways, Ginny knew Blaise loved her, and in some ways, Ginny loved him. But deep down, Ginny knew Blaise wasn't confused because he was in love with her; Blaise was confused because he was unfamiliar with love in general and had confused her kindness and attention for her being in love with him. Without knowing how to respond, he developed feelings.

Ginny sighed, crossing her legs and frowning. "Better?" she asked.

"Much," he said quietly. He paused, looking at her. "Ginevra –"

"Blaise," Ginny interrupted, "let me."

Blaise nodded.

"I understand," Ginny said slowly, "that you're confused. I understand that you don't really love me like that. We've both been under a lot of stress lately, and I think we got really, terribly mixed up. I don't take it personally; really I don't. But you have to promise me you won't take it personally when I say I don't love you that way. You're my friend; I want it to stay like that."

Ginny looked him squarely in the eye, and he nodded again.

"Thank you, Ginevra," he said quietly. "Thank you for understanding. I think I do love you just as a friend; you're right." He smiled briefly. "But what I said is still true; you confuse me a whole hell of a lot. And you are beautiful. You're so damn beautiful. Any bloke you want, you could get them to fall in love with you. I want you to fall in love with someone too. I want you to be happy."

Ginny smiled again. "Thank you, Blaise."

She licked her lips and sniffed a little, letting Blaise help her up after he stood. A small smile on his face, he turned to her and said, "Now about sneaking you out of the castle..."

* * *

_Hint Number One_

_The first thing you're going to need is a means of not being seen. Whether you find a charm or a spell, you need to not be seen. This can be done with the Chameleon Charm or by use of Invisibility Cloak. _

"Hiya, Harry," Ginny said brightly, plopping down in front of the fire. Trying to look as carefree as possible, she smiled at him and read the cover of his book.

"Again?" Ginny teased. "Haven't you read _Quidditch Through the Ages_ a zillion times already?"

Harry frowned slightly. He was obviously confused about why she was there, so Ginny volunteered the information.

"Harry," she said in a business-like fashion, "I have something very important to do, but that same something is frowned upon here at Hogwarts." She had rehearsed it a thousand times, trying to play on his sense of mischief. "Harry, I need to be invisible. I know you have something that could help me; I'm not deaf, and I'm not dumb."

He put the book down, still suspicious. "I'll buy that," he said slowly. "But I need to know why."

Ginny bit her lip and looked around shiftily. "I don't think I can talk about it," she said, resting upon the hope that he wouldn't pry too far into her business.

He looked at her hard, obviously wavering between giving it to her or not. She had him intrigued at least. "I don't know, Gin. Ron says your mum is in danger. Going and getting her or trying to see her might put you in danger too."

Ginny's eyes went wide; to cover it, she rubbed them furiously. "Um, sorry, but that isn't exactly why I need it. I...I have something I need to do...it's really important, Harry." She'd run out of options. All she had now was begging. "Please, Harry! You've got to believe me! I'll tell you all I can when I get back. I won't be gone that long! Six or seven hours! No one will even miss me. Please!"

It took a moment of really good puppy dog eyes to convince him, but in the end, Ginny got the cloak.

* * *

_Hint Number Two_

_The next part is a viable excuse. Sure, playing sick is always a good plan, but then you've got the bozos like Creevey, no offence, who always want to check up on you and see how you're doing. You can claim contagion, but then the nurse gets involved. No, the best thing is to say you're really tired, especially with Colin. He knows how much – or should I say how little? – you sleep. He will understand if you want to sleep. _

_And lock the door, for the love of Merlin._

Ginny yawned, stretching out like a cat on the floor of the common room. Colin and Dean were sitting on the couch and talking about Quidditch, Colin being an avid follower, almost as much as Dean. She padded quietly over to them and yawned again for good measure.

"Night, you two," she said in a sleep-laden voice, kissing each on the cheek as she usually did. "I'm really tired for some reason. Not enough sleep, I guess."

"Are you feeling okay, Ginny?" Dean asked in a worried voice. "I mean, you can hardly afford to lose any weight as it is. Don't go and get sick."

Ginny snorted. "Sure, you flirt. No, I'm just really tired. I feel fine. I think I'm going to sleep though tomorrow."

"Ah," Colin said, leaning back on the couch, "the joys of break. Have a happy rest day, Gin. I'll see you tomorrow, or most likely the day after tomorrow the way you need sleep."

"Night, boys," Ginny said, going up to her room.

She locked the door behind her.

* * *

_Hint Number Three_

_You've already designated yourself as wearing black. I can't fault you there; you look great in black, Ginevra. Everything else is tricky. Black skirt and black shirt, I'd do that in a heartbeat. But make-up and accessories, believe me, you need to go low on the accessories. Don't draw attention away from those freaky eyes of yours. Have I ever told you that you have the craziest eyes I've ever seen? Not bad crazy though. Intriguing crazy. _

_Plain gold necklace with a gold ring on it. Put a ring on your finger and put in some gold studs, and you'll be good. Leave your hair down; that's always sexy. Didn't you tell me your mother has a fur obsession? Mine does, that's for sure. But I've seen your fur coat, the black one lined in that soft bunny fur. That'll do. _

Ginny looked at herself in the mirror. She was so pale; she almost hated it. But then she remembered Reader had said his mother was pale, and he considered her beautiful. Ginny sighed, hoping she didn't remind him too much of his mother. Personally, she would love to meet his mother. To meet another Elemental would make her dreams of controlling her ability come true.

Ginny sighed, slipping on the gold chain necklace her mother had got her for her thirteenth birthday. She slipped one of her Grandmum Eva's rings on the necklace and one on her pointer finger, frowning slightly as the color in her eyes intensified.

She looked at herself again. The black skirt was a little short for winter, just a few inches into her thighs. But her black boots Charlie had given her looked good with her outfit. The boots were made of black dragon hide, very expensive. But then Charlie did have connections, and dragon materials had always been on the house.

After her hair was brushed delicately and curled a little at the ends, Ginny looked at herself again and smiled. It was much better than she had hoped for.

She pulled on her fur coat and grabbed her black sunglasses. Glancing in the mirror, she blew herself a kiss for good luck.

* * *

_Hint Number Four_

_The actual sneaking out will be the easiest part, Ginevra. First of all, my father OWNS the Floo Network. How do you think I get off campus? I have my own stash of Floo powder and a mapping device that can open up any hearth in the world to the World Wide Floo Network. _

_Really, Ginevra, how else would I get out of here Hogsmeade weekends? Do you ever see me at Hogsmeade? I mean when I don't go with you. _

_Now take this powder, and from 9:00 to 9:05 a.m., the Floo will take you anywhere you want to go. _

_Be careful, Ginevra. You'll have to tell me all about it when you get back._

* * *

_Keeping Track of Time_

Ginny stuck a hand in the Floo pot on her fireplace. Taking a deep breath, she looked into the fire and contemplated her choice. She could always back out if she didn't feel ready.

9:02

And really, did she have to meet him? The whole diary thing had been going so great. There were so many things she felt free saying in the book that she didn't know if she could say out loud.

9:03

What if he wasn't there? What if she was waiting there for hours, and he never came? What if he was a phony like all the rest of them, and he didn't really care about her?

9:04

But what if he did?

9: 05

Ginny threw the Floo in the hearth. "Emerson's Coffee Shoppe!"

9:06

The fire burned brightly.

* * *

_Well Met_

Draco shivered slightly against the cold. The outside of the coffee shop would be heated; they always did that sort of thing on Diagon Alley during the Christmas season. He passed by the happy witches and wizards, witches dragging laughing children behind them. The big-eyed children were in awe at all the gifts and shiny things within hand's reach.

Draco silently wondered what it would have been like to be one of those children. To have his mother drag him by the forearm through masses and masses of gaudy presents and chattering people. He didn't think his mother was the dragging type.

He looked at his pocket watch. It was eleven on the dot. He'd barely been able to contain himself that morning. He'd paced to and fro for hours. He'd confided in his mother what he was going to do, who he'd met and what he knew about her. His mother had called it romantic and smiled wistfully, her aqua eyes going distant for a moment.

He had wanted to question his mother but had refrained. Instead, he had gone to Diagon Alley and made his way from one side to the other, trying to decide what he would buy Writer. It would have to be something simple, but something she would appreciate. He wanted to shower her with gifts but knew gifts wouldn't be the way to Writer's heart.

Draco had walked into the bookstore with no idea what to get her. And then it dawned on him. A diary. It was perfect. It would replace the one he had filled with his...with his ugliness. He regretted writing some of the things he had written, but he didn't regret that she knew them. He just regretted dirtying the book that had so many of her happy memories in it. At least she'd have a new book to start memories in.

How foolish or young or impulsive Draco looked or felt didn't matter to him as he bought a dozen lilies for Writer. The person selling them smiled at him, called him a beautiful youth and winked. Draco thought lilies would be better than roses. Roses might be too intimate. So walking up Diagon Alley to Emerson's Coffee Shoppe, lilies and blank diary in hand, Draco allowed himself to smile.

That was until he got to Emerson's. It was a small place, humble with an air of sophistication. Draco understood why Writer liked it so. It was her atmosphere, very in character. In the gated, outside seats of the little coffee shop, there sat quite a large group of people. Most of them appeared older than him but not quite adults. And in the corner of the gated area sat a woman in a black coat with brown fur lining the edges, her ruby red hair flowing over the sides.

Draco stopped breathing for a moment. Even at a distance, she was beautiful. He vaguely thought he looked like a fool, standing there with his lilies in hand, gazing at a woman not ten meters from him. A pale hand reached up, and she pulled off her sunglasses, putting them inside a purse. She stopped to sip her drink and wrote something on a napkin with a well-loved quill.

Exhaling fully, Draco forced himself to take step after step until he was inside the gated area. A few women looked at him, smiling and chattering about how lucky someone was. Draco ignored them. His eyes were for Writer. He licked his lips, taking steady steps until he was right next to her.

Then he sat across from her, not bothering to be invited, and stared at her face.

He was sure his face didn't give away his surprise. Surprise because he was sitting next to a _WEASLEY!_

Draco felt like fainting. Well, not fainting, but he felt surprised. He could only imagine how she felt. He gazed at her, but no emotions played across her face. In fact, she appeared to be very deep in thought. She looked exactly like she had not moments before when she had no idea he was there. Draco vaguely wondered if he was there. Her fingers went to her lips in a contemplative fashion. Draco longed to touch the lips himself.

He wasn't going to lie; she was very beautiful. In fact, her fleshy red lips and dazzling copper-bronze eyes made him shiver. He could only imagine what her perfect, pure, white hands could do. And when the black of her dress contrasted with her hair like that, her hair almost looked like blood. She was stunning. And whoever Painters was, was right. She was a little terrifying. Terrifyingly beautiful and strange. Yet so, so beautiful.

Finally, her left hand drew away from her lips, and she extended her right. Her face completely straight, though a small hint of amusement in her eyes and lips, she said, "Ginny Weasley."

Draco didn't hesitate. His hand met hers, and he almost died. A shock went through his body like he had never felt, and he was distracted by soft wind that sang. "Draco Malfoy," he replied in a soft, awed voice.

His hand and whole body felt suddenly cold when she let go of his hand. She smiled an amused sort of smile.

"I imagine you're rather surprised," she said thoughtfully. "I am too. But at the same time, I don't think I am."

"Yes," he whispered. "I mean no," he amended quickly. Her smile encouraged him. "I'm not completely surprised."

She cocked her head. "Coffee, Draco?"

As she said it, a cup of steaming coffee appeared on the table, and she smiled, her eyes laughing. They weren't laughing at him but rather the whole situation. He took the coffee, reflecting absently that he would have to get her to say his name more often. It sounded beautiful on her lips. He imagined a lot of things sounded good on those lips.

"So," she said, "I think I would rather like to hear your reaction first if you don't mind."

"I'd make a fool of myself," Draco mumbled, sipping the coffee.

"Okay," she returned. "I'll go first. You're probably wondering how you should react, which is the best thing I could have hoped for, I think. But I want to be your friend; if you'll let me, I mean. I'd like to know you, Draco...funny how that name comes so easily to me. I rather think I like it more than Reader, don't you?"

Draco nodded. "I don't want you to be my friend."

Her face fell, and he quickly amended himself.

"That didn't come out quite right," he mumbled. He suddenly felt extremely foolish and thought it would be better if someone slipped some poison in his coffee before he completely humiliated himself. "I mean," he corrected, "I don't want you to be _just_ my friend."

Her face turned serious, and Draco thought he could see tears dying to be spilt onto her now rosy cheeks. Draco stood, offering her a hand. "Let's take a walk," he suggested.

She nodded, standing and switching her purse from her lap to her hand. Draco looked at her and held out the lilies. "These are for you."

She smiled at him, her rosy cheeks flushing a slightly darker color. Draco thought it could quite possibly be the sexiest blush he'd ever seen. When she closed her eyes and sniffed the flowers carefully, it made his heart beat about twenty times faster. She smiled a small, thankful smile.

"They're beautiful, Draco," she said quietly.

Draco suddenly felt very sure of himself. Offering her his arm, he smiled as gallantly as he could and tried not to breathe too hard as she latched onto him, inching up to him slightly. Some inner fire warmed him from head to toe, and it made Draco itch all over.

As they walked out of the small shop, Draco Banished some coins to the table and began walking her to the park. The air had suddenly become very clear, windy and yet slightly warmer than he expected. They walked in silence, both pondering what they wanted to say to one another.

It was only when Draco sat on the bench, her next to him, her lily-tinted scent filling his nose that he plucked up the courage to speak. "Ginny," he said quietly, reveling in the ability to say her name aloud and not just in his head like he had the last five minutes.

Her eyes locked with his, her face was solemn, and her eyes expectant. "Yes," she whispered.

"What I said back there," he continued, a soft breeze distracting him slightly as it blew her crimson hair over her eyes. His hand itched to touch her hair, gather it behind her ear and hope he caught a bit of her skin. "What I said back there," he repeated, "I don't want you just as a friend. And...and you know how I am with emotions and showing my feelings; it's hard. But Ginny, you make me want to change, and the only way I want to change is with you. And I hope it doesn't sound too forward, and I hope it doesn't seem too brutish of me, but I would really like to fall in love with you."

Her face remained blank, and for a fleeting moment, Draco thought he'd said the wrong thing. And when a tear, a single, crystalline tear, rolled down her cheek, he became thoroughly convinced he'd said the wrong thing. Her lips trembled, and Draco regretted every word he said.

"Ginny, I'm so sorry," he said quickly. "I'm so sorry. I'll take it back, all of it. Just don't cry, please, I'll take it back."

Another tear slid down her cheek, and she whispered in a broken voice, "You would?"

Her eyes were pleading, her face a puzzle, and Draco didn't know how to solve it. He had fallen in love with a hugely complex person. Draco steeled himself and looked her straight in the eye. He brought his hand to her cheek, capturing the wisps of ruby hair flying about her face, and tucked it behind her ear securely, running his fingers through the ends of her hair and grabbing a light hold on her shoulders. He looked her straight in her bronze-colored eyes and saw hope. Ravenous butterflies were soaring in his belly, and they were moving at light speed at what she said next.

"Please, Draco, tell me," she whispered, her full lips caressing the words softly.

"No," he answered. "Not for anything would I ever take it back."

Her eyes shone brightly, and Draco couldn't help himself. He leaned closer, his nose automatically invaded by the scent of lilies combined with her own original smell. He could practically taste her tears. And slowly, slower than Draco had ever moved in his life, he brought his lips to hers.

White hot contact jarred his senses, and he fought for control over himself. He'd never felt this, not ever. He doubted if he ever would again, unless it was with her. Unless it was with his sweet Ginny. Her lips moved against his in a velvety, horizontal motion, and he felt her soft hands on his chest. What did it in for him was when her soft, sweet tongue brushed his lips lightly, questioningly.

Well, if she insisted...

His tongue shot in her mouth, his arms tightening around her instinctively. She practically liquefied in his arms, a soft murmuring of content all he could hear over his own thudding heartbeat. She tasted like nothing he'd ever experienced. She was chill and clear, warm and inviting. He allowed himself the guilty pleasure of tangling his hands in her hair and reveling in its full, silky smoothness.

She sighed a light, melodic sigh, and Draco had to stop. It was getting too hot for him right then. He almost laughed. Hot in the middle of winter with a fire spirit kissing him. Of course he was hot. But he was hot in more than one way.

Her eyes were closed when he pulled away, her sweet breath hit his face caressingly as she exhaled quietly. The air fogged around her breath, and Draco couldn't help a brief smile. He'd kissed a fire spirit. It was hot.

Her eyes opened, her unearthly bronze eyes, and he stopped, immediately sobered. "I have a confession," she said in a whisper. A small smile hit her lips, the kind where only the corner of her mouth turned up. "I rather hoped I would get kissed today."

Draco couldn't help himself. He pulled her to him, almost too roughly, and kissed her again, the heady feeling of power flowing through him as she returned the kiss eagerly. He felt dizzy like he'd never experienced when he pulled away again, looking into her dazzling gold-streaked eyes.

He wasn't ever going to let her up. He was never going to give her up.

"Ginny," he said softly.

She smiled in response.

The words came hard to him, but he knew they needed to be said. He knew his time with her was limited; he had to be back by dinner. That left a few hours. He would ask her later. "What are you thinking?"

She cocked her head, leaning her head on his shoulder and shifting a bit in his lap. The action made him slightly on edge, but he tried to restrain himself. He noticed then how much smaller than him she actually was. Draco didn't consider himself a beast; he was by no means Crabbe or Goyle. He was tall and willowy like his mother, strong and muscular like his father. She must have been much shorter than he. His little less than two meters towered over her little more than one and two thirds. But it made him smile how she fit with his body perfectly.

"I was thinking about what we are going to do when we get back to school. No offense, but we can't exactly be a traditional couple. I can't stand Pansy Parkinson, and Goyle and Crabbe terrify me. And if you sat with me, I would have to first give my brother a lobotomy."

Draco nodded. It may be an easier subject to breech than he originally thought. "Are you suggesting we keep it a secret?" he asked, nose going to her hair and neck. He smirked when she sighed and leaned into him.

"Yes," she sighed. "But I'll have to tell some people. Blaise and Colin must know."

Draco looked at her oddly. "Zabini? The poof?"

Ginny smiled. "That's Butterfly. Colin Creevey and Dean Thomas are Painters," she clarified.

"You keep some odd company, love," he said, eyes laughing with hers. "Two poofs and an almost poof. No wonder you have issues."

Ginny smiled at him, laughing a twinkle of a laugh and pressing her forehead to his. "Colin's not a 'poof,' as you so artistically put it. But yes, Dean and Blaise are gay. Not with each other though, I don't think."

"Who's Stag?" Draco asked suddenly. He couldn't help the anxiety that entered his eyes when he asked it. This "Stag" was the only one he felt threatened by when it came to Ginny.

"Who's your 'bastard'?" she countered lightly.

"Potter," Draco snarled, unaware his grip on Ginny had tightened.

Ginny put her cheek to his and closed her eyes. Draco felt the whisper of her eyelashes against his cheek, and he calmed a little. "You needn't worry about him, Draco. I could never feel for him what I feel for you."

Draco wanted to ask what exactly she felt for him but stayed his tongue and inhaled her hair again.

They stayed like that for a long time, trying to make up for lost time. Ginny closed her eyes and felt, for one of the few times in her life, calm and completely safe. Her thoughts drifted on how she could possibly feel safe with a Malfoy. But then she thought Malfoy and Weasley didn't really matter there. It was just Writer and Reader, and she was happy.

Draco watched the sun set though Ginny's hair, watched it play across her crimson waves. They had been right, the Creevey boy and Zabini. She was the most beautiful girl he could ever hope to meet. But that was just icing on the cake compared to her mind. He wanted her, her soul and mind and body. No one could take it from him, not even Voldemort.

* * *

_Mon Petite Garcon, Part I_

Narcissa Malfoy reached as far as she could. She still couldn't reach it. As strong as she trained herself, as far as she pushed herself, it was always just out of her reach. It had been that way a long, long time. She could barely imagine life without the bond now. Only her inborn, free bird spirit and Draco had kept her fighting. Narcissa had always been a fighter, ever since she was a young girl. At the orphanage she had lived at, one was either relied upon, or one relied on other people. She had broken the mold and become free.

It was in her blood to be free. Her Elemental blood demanded it, that being the character of Wind. Though she was bound in body, he could never bind her soul, her spirit. She had found a way around it when Draco was first born, and she wanted to sing to his blood. She wanted the Elemental part of her to be strong in him, but alas, she was too weak. Wind was connected to speed, song, the moon and stars, freedom, and of course, healing and cleansing. She just wasn't a strong enough creature of the Wind, though she wished with all her heart that she was.

She had managed to save her baby a few times, but "a few" wasn't enough. She had needed to protect him against all the awful things he had done; in some ways, she had failed miserably. He had tried so hard to corrupt her son. He had done his best to bind her completely to him. He had made her life a living hell for nearly twenty years. He, she hated more than anything she had ever hated in her life. He was the person she so blindly rescued in hopes of changing him. He betrayed her. He was her husband.

Narcissa hated him with all her soul and body. One day, she reminded herself, one day she would take her revenge. Her mother would give her strength to hurt him as he hurt her.

With mother-like care and love, she did her best to fix the boy that lay before her. He was badly bruised, his chest and back and buttocks full of welts and scars. His face was bloody, his privates torn to ribbons. Narcissa felt sorry for them, all of the boys that came through her house...his house. This wasn't her house, she reminded herself. Her house was in the sky and with the stars.

The boy was bleeding, losing his life's blood faster than she could heal him. He was one of the fortunate ones as far as Narcissa was concerned. The others – the ones that survived and had to live – they were the most scarred and destroyed. Sometimes she could make them forget, use her power for that. But since he had taken her wand from her, all she had were her weaker powers. Narcissa cursed herself for not becoming stronger when she could have. She cursed herself for not training when she could have been.

She swallowed and looked with sadness upon the boy. His eyes were wide with shock; he no longer was responsive. He was going to die. It was a sad thing she had to do, something she'd only done a few times before. But he often raped them until they were either so physically or emotionally scarred they died. Or were as good as dead. And when those times came, all Narcissa could do was kill the boys and give their spirits to the wind.

Sighing, she began to tug the air from his lungs, slowly, so he passed out completely before she cut off his oxygen supply. The boy's eyes closed, and he lay limp, no longer shuddering, no longer whimpering. Narcissa breathed hard, releasing the air she'd held while taking the boy's life. It was the only humane thing she could have done.

She quietly gathered the boy in the white sheets of the bed and held him in her arms, not able to look upon his terrified face. She sang the song of passage inborn into her blood and mourned him as if he was her own. She thought briefly on Draco and dismissed him. Later she would talk to him, and everything would be all right.

"Why do you insist on doing that?" The voice came from him. She recognized it anywhere. Cold and devilish, it hollowed the room like a knife cutting through soft skin.

Narcissa allowed herself a minute of composure before putting the boy gently down and standing to face her...her...husband. He was just as she had seen him all those years ago. Except then there was a bit more humanity in his eyes. Now...now there was nothing.

"Why?" she said softly. "Because someone must. You won't. You only rape them. You won't ever finish the job when it gets to be too much. You're not man enough."

Her French accent was stronger out of scorn. Through lessons she was able to quell it, but he liked it, so it stayed.

He snorted, downing a glass of brandy before throwing the glass onto the fire and glancing warningly in her direction. "Don't press your luck. I hold your life in the palm of my hand; don't ever forget that, Narcissa-love."

He moved towards her, sauntering like a cat in heat and running a chill hand up her arm. She shuddered and moved away, standing on the other side of the dead boy in her bedroom.

"There was a time when you warmed to my touch, my little wind spirit," he cooed dangerously.

"There was also a time when I pitied you!" she spat. Then gesticulating to the dead boy, "There was also a time when this didn't happen in my home! There was also a time when I was free! But tell me, Lucius," she snarled with hate, "Hw can I warm to a person so cold and disgusting? How can I make love to a person who can't feel that emotion or anything but need and greed?"

"Narcissa," he warned, his cooing voice gone. "Don't say things you will regret."

She turned her head from him, looking out the window. "Come over here," she said lightly. "Come, step over the little boy you raped. The little boy who looks so much like our little boy. Do that, oh great Lucius, and I will know if you are man enough."

He looked at her, his eyes flashing maliciously and murderously. "I take orders from no one, especially not a weakling such as yourself."

Then he stormed out of the room. Narcissa stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what she had done to make him go away. She fell to the ground, harsh tears pricking in her eyes. A shaking hand brought out her jewel, her one memory, her one gift from the one person she had imagined cared, and she kissed it. Her eyes fell upon the boy, and she realized why he had left.

The boy who looked so much like her son had his eyes open. His eyes were open, and they were looking right where Lucius had been standing the moment before.

Narcissa allowed herself a small smile. So the bastard had some fear left in him after all.

* * *

_Danielle Steale Does Something Rightº_

It was clearly night when Draco finally shifted and put Ginny back down, stretching as he stood and holding his hand out to her. She took it gingerly, smiling up at him. Her night had been like a cheesy romance novel. But in a good way. Her whole body reverberated from touching him. And when she looked up, all she could think of was him. He made her blood sing; he made her soul shiver...he made her shiver too.

And when he touched at her...she had to bite her lip to keep from touching that incredibly sinuous body of his. She'd seen him before, remarked lightly (to herself) that he was pretty fit then moved on. No Weasley in their right mind approached him...people didn't approach him much at all. But when he looked at her with those milky, silver eyes, she wanted to drown in them and hope he came along for the ride.

She was falling, falling faster than she ever had in her life. But then, she thought, she'd known him before she'd seen him, really seen him. She'd dreamt about him before she'd known him. And now, now that she knew him, had seen him, all the emotions riding the current of her soul took form and foamed on the shore of her heart. She was in love. How could she not be in love with Reader, how could she not be in love with Draco? The real Draco, the Draco she saw, not the Draco he showed to the world.

It made her feel gifted that he would look at her like that, show her what he had, kiss her like he did. More than anything, she wanted to kiss those thin lips of his and hear his breath quicken when she rested her hand on his chest. More than anything, she wanted him to whisper the words to her. "I love you, Ginny."

She heard it somehow, somewhere between the kisses and the meeting of souls. He had whispered it, very lightly. He hadn't used his words to say it; he'd used his hands, his lips, and yes, his soul. She felt the brief meeting of Wind to Wind, the primal joining of the Elements, testing the water.

She sighed as Draco kissed her again, his aristocratic hands skimming her arm under her coat. It was tender, much like their first kiss, loving and trusting. Ginny leaned her head against his chest when he pulled away.

"I have something for you," he said in his soft voice. The voice charged electricity right up her spine, the hairs on her back and arms pricking to the deep sensation of his voice.

"What's that?" she whispered back, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes dancing with untold thoughts, maybe desires. Desires Ginny hoped were brewing in those milky, Mercurian eyes. A finger went to her chin, tilting it up and brushing sensually on her bottom lip. "A diary," he replied in his reverberating mumble. "For the one I ruined."

"The one you ruined?" Ginny asked, confused.

"For the one I put all the darkness in," he clarified. He bent down and took a bag off the bench. A brown bound, plain diary was pulled from the bag, "Writer" written in golden scrawl on the inside cover. "For the one my darkness touched."

"That's what you think?" she asked, cocking her head to the side and slowly opening and closing her eyes. "That's not what I think. That book is the most beautiful thing I own, Draco. It may be dark, but it isn't all your fault. I put that in there, too; it was our book."

He didn't say anything; rather, he just pushed the new diary into her hands. Ginny took it, hoping he understood what she had said. "We have to go," she said reluctantly. She bit her lip again, looking up though her thick eyelashes. "When can I see you next?"

Draco seemed to think for a while, his eyes growing distant. "You usually escape for a few hours to go to the tower, right? Well, instead of us going on different days, let's go on the same. I don't have practice on Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays. Meet me there after dinner. But come through your room."

Ginny nodded. She smiled, really it was a smirk, and turned to him with her evil grin. "No wonder Slytherin hasn't won the Cup in four years. They play before practice and practice before studying."

Draco snorted. "I choose to take that personally."

This made Ginny smile. "Good. Now I can make it all better."

She stood on her toes, her fingers grabbing a light hold on the hair at the back of his head and pulling him into a passionate kiss, her body warming up to his, before pulling back and smiling evilly.

Draco said something in French Ginny didn't understand. She looked at him questioningly, and he feigned a smile. "I said I envy the man that taught you how to kiss. Among other things."

Ginny smiled and shrugged, sighing as she held her diary to her chest and looked up at him again. "I told Harry I'd be back by sundown. He'll call the Magical Law Enforcement Squad if I don't get back soon."

Draco frowned.

"I persuaded him to let me use his...never mind." Ginny turned quickly, composing herself before turning back to Draco, becoming sheepish as he glared at her lightly.

"He has an Invisibility Cloak, doesn't he?"

Ginny nodded in a defeated manner.

"Damn him! I knew that's how he was doing it," Draco growled. Then he smirked. "But then he doesn't get to kiss you; I do. Right?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Like I'd want to," she said tiredly.

Draco snorted. He looked rather superior when he tossed his hair like that and his top lip pulled back lightly. Somehow, that expression which she had made fun of with the rest of the Gryffindors seemed different in this light. Maybe it just seemed like a different him.

"Where did you come from?" he asked her as they began to walk back into Diagon Alley.

Ginny raised an eyebrow.

"I mean what fireplace," he said in an exasperated tone. "You did come by Floo, right?"

"Yeah," Ginny replied. "I came from Emerson's, but they're closed now. I'll end up using the Ministry Floo, pretending to visit my father. You can go anywhere in those things."

Draco's eye twitched. "Let's use my personal Floo in Gringotts. It'll be safer."

"You have a personal Floo fireplace at Gringotts," Ginny said lightly.

Draco looked at her through the corner of his eye. "I have a personal everything. Lucius doesn't know about this one, but the other two he does. Actually, one he knows about because he gave it to me, the other he knows because he found out. But I know he knows about it, and he knows I know about it, and neither of us says anything. I can't risk going with you in the secret one; he might have tracers on it. Unlikely, but definitely possible. He'll expect me through the other two. I'll go through the one he's supposed to know about, so he'll think I'm up to no good; it'll be safer that way."

Ginny's eyes were wide open, her head shaking slightly. "I would suck at being a Slytherin. That's involved."

Draco shrugged. "All in a day's work..."

They continued in silence until they reached his secret Floo. The room of fireplaces was dark; most of the hearths still for the night. Ginny looked at Draco as he lit the fire, shadows making him look slightly less approachable as he turned to her. But when he touched her...

Ginny melted into his lips again, straining to keep conscious as his tongue probed hers, his hands creeping into her hair again, making her think the dirtiest of thoughts. Ginny reflected that dirty thoughts like that did not bother her at all. In fact, if Draco moved his hand a little up...or down really...

But he pulled away, a fire lighting his eyes that wasn't in the room. Ginny bit her lip, wondering with all her mind what he was thinking.

"Ginny –"

"Draco –"

They both paused; a small smile played on Draco's face.

"You go first," she said, smiling tenderly.

Draco nodded. "I want to tell you something, Ginny," he said seriously. "And I want you to understand. No matter how I feel for you, no matter what regard I hold you in, in my heart, on the outside I must be cold as ice. I must be cold to protect you, and to protect me, from Lucius and from the other Slytherins. So I may say things and do things, and yes, they might hurt. But I will never mean them, not ever."

Ginny nodded, completely understanding what he said. It was to protect her, always. "I have to go," she said quietly.

"Didn't you have some –"

"No," she interrupted. "I mean," she looked down, "it was nothing."

She took a handful of Floo, tossed it in the fireplace and was gone.

She leaned heavily on the mantle when she got to her room, flinging off her coat and sighing. She pulled Harry's cloak out of her coat and placed it in a box, labeling it to Harry.

Sitting on her bed, she opened the diary and looked at the blank pages. It seemed impossible to write in it. It had no meaning for her if Reader wouldn't be there to answer. If Draco wasn't there to answer her.

She closed the book and sighed.

Turning off the light and falling asleep, Ginny dreamt very odd dreams.

* * *

_Evil-Laden_

"M-master," the short man whimpered.

"Yes, Wormtail," the man who stank of death replied. He was calm, collected in his dark, evil way. His hands were steepled in front of him, seemingly contemplating his next evil. He looked like a malicious double of his good-streaked counterpart.

"I've seen her, Master," the short man said. "She is...she is...is..."

"Yes," he said calmly, but betraying danger. "Tell me what she looks like, Wormtail, tell me of her power."

The servant trembled, his eyes flashing, and he looked as though he would pass out.

"Tell me," the dark man commanded.

"She is beautiful, Master! She is terrible and beautiful! She scares me; she has such power and beauty, a terrible beauty. Her hair is like blood, and her eyes are bronze, terrible and hard, but soft and caressing. Her skin is the finest porcelain, and she has a soul of fire, burning brightly and flaring up with her wind. Such terrible, beautiful power!"

He collapsed on the ground as though the mere memory was attacking him. He whimpered more, edging to the dark man's feet and rubbing his tearing eyes against his boots.

But the dark man kicked at him and sent him reeling to the ground, making him shake uncontrollably.

"She did something to me, Master," Wormtail simpered. "She – she _– she touched me_. Her – her spirit. It broke me..."

He collapsed again into uncontrollable shudders, hugging his legs to his chest and weeping pitifully.

The dark man smiled a dark smile that reached his serpent-like eyes and nose. A soft chuckle started in the back of his throat and continued into booming, malicious laughter, mad laughter that caused the dark night to seem that much more sinister.

And between evil-laden laughter, he said in dark joy, "My queen has come, and her spirit will be mine! Come to me, firefly, come and bow before me! Bring your legions; I will still have you!"

The laughter continued into the night, waking two people nearly two hundred miles away.

* * *

_When It All Comes Together, Part I_

Ginny sat upright in her bed, nearly falling to the ground. Immediately she went into the bathroom and retched up all the food she'd eaten in the last few days, her eyes blurry and her hands shaking.

Her.

He was looking for her again.

And he would find her.

* * *

_When It All Comes Together, Part II_

Palms sweating and scar burning with the power of nine Hells, Harry woke from a terribly realistic dream, his hands immediately clutching his scar. Voldemort again, haunting his dream, manipulating their link to send him awful visions, visions of death and decay, of evil and pain.

He rose, swallowing the bile in his throat with a glass of cold water. He needed to take a shower, do anything to get his mind off the dreams. They were getting to be too much, and all the Dreamless Sleep Draught in the world couldn't help him now. He was already too addicted.

Then it hit him. The girl, the girl Voldemort had been talking about, the girl with the blood-red hair, hard copper eyes, and porcelain skin, the girl he wanted to sire his heir, was Ginny.

His face paled as he looked in the mirror. He took his invisibility cloak out of the box Ginny had sent it in and tried to make himself look as presentable as possible. He needed to talk to Dumbledore.

* * *

ºDanielle Steale – a famous romance novelist


	7. Metaphysical Transmission

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER SEVEN:**

**Metaphysical Transmission**

* * *

_Can't Swim_

"She will know now, Albus."

A sigh. "Yes."

"What will you do?"

"Now?"

A nod.

"I've heard the truth is highly effective, Alastor."

"And when she asks of her mother?"

A silence.

"Alastor, Molly was able to save Jeannette but at a high cost. I don't know if the Molly we know will ever make it back. She has entered –"

"No!"

A sigh. "Yes. It is unfortunate. But she managed to save Jeannette from that place."

"One Dreamweaver Queen for a Dreamweaver Attendant? She should have left Jeannette in the Remnants."

"Molly was a Gryffindor. She did what she did because Jeannette was so young. Jeannette is still young, still has enough room to improve to at least Princess among Dreamweavers."

A long silence.

"But Albus...what if..."

"The young one isn't ready yet, Alastor."

"But if you had a teacher for her, maybe the original Dreamweaver. The Weasley is a strong girl; she could reach her."

"Molly could not."

"Her daughter is stronger than she. Maybe she is stronger already. Don't tell me you haven't felt it. Just on the edge of your senses...that light brush on your mind. She encompasses everyone, Albus, everyone."

A nod. "She could yet be a Dreamweaver Princess, but she would have to find Dorothea first."

"Yes, she would have to find Dorothea first."

A long silence.

"What will we do about the Potter boy, Albus?"

"He will have to stay ignorant of this."

"His mind is still young, Albus. The adolescent mind isn't ready for Obliviation. Especially in the amounts you give him. But if we had a Priestess, she could easily filter his dreams..."

"And when the Remnants claim her because she is too young? Or what about when the dreams become too much? What happens when she can't find Dorothea? Molly won't even be able to help her soon. She needs to be guided."

"Which is exactly why she needs to see Dorothea, Albus. That exact reason."

A sigh. "I have a feeling Dorothea will find her, Alastor. Did you ever know her to say no to a challenge? Especially a challenge to her abilities? I think Miss Weasley will be getting a visitor in the next few weeks. Especially if she keeps at her practice like she has. I dreamt of Evangeline last night. I haven't dreamt of her for nearly fifty years, Alastor."

"She's protecting herself."

"She's too powerful, so when she's protecting herself, she protects everyone else. Alastor, it's magnificent."

"And slightly scary."

"Yes."

* * *

_All Right_

Pacing dreamily on the warm carpet of Inverted Tower, Ginny let herself be happy. Through the West Window a small, slightly cool breeze stirred. She would see Draco in a very short time. Holiday had ended, and it was the first Wednesday Ginny got to see him. She knew she would live for Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays.

She hugged herself and smiled a sleepy smile as she sat down at the East Window, closing all the windows with her wand as she sighed. All she needed now was him. As she smiled to herself, the door opened, and Draco leaned casually in the doorway, his hands in his slacks as he looked at her.

Ginny swallowed and watched him as he walked over to her, his gait casual and slow like a predator as he came to a stop by the seat. He pulled her up slowly, his eyes raking her over and fingers playing lightly on her bare arms.

"I missed you," he whispered.

Ginny smiled, leaning into him.

They had a lot to talk about.

* * *

_Mon Petite Garcon, Part II_

Draco sighed. When he sat on the window seat, Ginny leaned against his chest like this, looking out the panes of glass on the peacefully shimmering lake, it almost made him stop breathing. Her fingers drew intricate designs on the tops of his knees and thighs, her eyes on the lake but her attention on him. Draco looked passively at the moon, his hand creeping to Ginny's stomach and resting there.

"There was something I wanted to tell you," she said quietly, her voice sure and her breathing light.

"Hmm…"

"I saw you in my dreams," she said in a low voice, her eyes closing for a moment. "I saw you and your mother. But in those days, I didn't remember. I have the memory now though."

"What did you see?" he asked, almost afraid what the answer might be. He knew she saw other people's dreams; she had told him in the diary. His dreams were dark though, not for her to see, not for anyone to see.

"You were young, ten maybe. You didn't have a wand. And you were sitting alone in your room. It was a very cold room. Your mother was passed out in the corner; she'd taken some sort of depressant. Your father came in and said something, I don't really remember what. But it made your mother angry. He hit her then, and you healed her."

Draco held back a snort. He had that dream often. Mostly because it happened often. Not since he had got his wand though, not for years. Well, not while he was home at least.

So instead he sighed, twirling a bit of her hair in his fingers. "Yes."

"And the one where you fought back." She said it as though it were very simple, yet very serious. "And the ones where you lost."

"I never beat him," Draco replied.

Ginny seemed to consider this. "In a way, you beat him more every day." She looked up at him solemnly. "You want nothing more than to not be like him, and he wants nothing more than for you to be his mirror. Every day you rebel, you win a bit more."

Draco swallowed. "Yes."

* * *

_Thor's Hammerº_

Ginny snorted. It was a Saturday. She loathed Saturdays. Mostly because Saturdays were Quidditch days. She hadn't gone to the game (which had been Ravenclaw vs. Hufflepuff) and instead had spent the day in bed, her head lapsing into the deep thudding that had been haunting her for days.

It was as if someone wanted to break into her head using a sledge hammer. Ginny groaned as the thudding continued. In a few minutes she was going to have to fly to the bathroom and puke again. She knew it.

And what a surprise when it happened.

Lying back down on the cool, white sheets, Ginny sighed, tossing the damp cloth on her forehead. If only someone would perform a lobotomy...

"Dreamweaver..."

Ginny groaned. Not the voice again. She pressed her hands to her ears and almost screamed. The voice had come to her Friday evening after class. She had dismissed it as her head playing tricks with her. Then it came with a gentle scratching, like a person in a dark alley trying to find the lock to put their key. Then the voice came with a light tickle. Then a solid knock. And now a hammer on the anvil. She wanted to die...or kill someone.

"Dreamweaver..."

"Shut up!" Ginny screeched, her hand over her ears as she buried her face in her hands. "Leave me alone!" She shook with anger and fear and fatigue. All night and all day the voice and the slamming! A few more knocks and she would be done; there was no way around it. She was going to die from this. She was going to have a brain aneurysm and die.

"Oh, shut up!" a cold voice said moodily. "You're not going to have a brain aneurysm, and you're not going do die, Dreamweaver."

Ginny almost fainted. Merciful gods, the voice was talking to her.

"Now listen to me, you little shit," the voice snarled. "You're going to open your inner conscious right now, or I'm going to break down what's left of your bleeding walls!"

Ginny weakly surrendered; a whoosh of a shadow entering her inner mind was all she caught of the intruder. Ginny laughed madly, tears welling in her eyes. She had someone in her mind. This was more fun than Christmas! Closing her eyes, she surrendered, a smile on her lips as she descended into the inner part of her consciousness, intent on meeting this invading force.

"It would have been so much easier if you would have just let me in!" the person grumbled as she rummaged through her thoughts. Ginny was almost sure the person was a woman. It was obvious that she was upset. "But no, you had to go and change the keys. You're a tangled one, aren't you? No organization!"

"Excuse me, ma'am," Ginny said politely, or as politely as she could. "But can I help you? You see, this is my mind you're rummaging through. I'm quite sane right now, but if you keep throwing things about like that, I'll be a vegetable."

The voice snapped at her. "Well, if you had the organization of a packrat, I'd not be dealing with it like this. Now stand back; I think I've found it."

A black-lit crystal shone in Ginny's inner eye. She had to shade her eyes from the violent light.

"Now this is much better," the voice said, becoming stronger and more physical.

Ginny looked around; the black crystal was looming over her, lighting things oddly and casting dark shadows on her mind. But looking down, Ginny saw that she was very solid.

"It's your metaphysical form," the woman in front of her explained, her green eyes flashing dangerously. "Or in other words, how your mind sees you."

The woman looked at her sharply, her moony-green eyes flying over her appearance. Ginny was observing the woman too. She was short, shorter than Ginny at least, and had black on black hair. Though age had colored a large chunk in the front of her hair white and fine lines touched her eyes and mouth, the rest of her body seemed un-ravished by age. Her gentle grace and pale skin contrasted with the black dress she wore and black, long, tightly curled hair. Her eyes were the oddest part of her, pale, almost silvery, but with a green tint.

"You must be the newest Dreamweaver; only an idiot would have denied access to me. You must have no idea who I am. Didn't your mother ever tell you who I was?" The woman looked upset and flustered.

Ginny just shook her head. "My mother never got the chance to tell me what I was in person. She had a mission."

The woman snorted. "Is that so? Well then, why don't you tell me what your name is, little Dreamweaver, and why it took me forty-eight bloody hours to crack through your outer walls?"

Ginny frowned. Who was this person, un-introduced and intruding in her mind, to tell her what to do? Sighing and rolling her eyes, Ginny crossed her arms defensively. "My name is Ginny Weasley. And I don't know what an outer wall is, much less how to break it."

The woman glared at her. "Your name is Ginny? Surely that is short for something."

"Ginevra," Ginny ground out. "And who are you? Why don't we add what you're doing here, too?"

"I," the woman said, straightening up and appearing taller than she actually was, "am Dorothea Polenin, the High Priestess of the Dreamweavers."

Ginny sniffed and looked at her blankly.

"Well, I never!" Dorothea said angrily, her apparent temper flaring. "First you lock me out of your mind, and now you don't even show proper respect! What is the world coming to?"

Ginny frowned and looked at the woman again. "Why don't you explain it to me, ma'am?"

The woman harrumphed, and a wooden tea table appeared out of nowhere, two seats and a full tea set accompanying it. Dorothea motioned from Ginny to sit, and cautiously, she did. Dorothea poured the tea into two cups and began drinking from one of them. She studied Ginny with tight, single-minded focus and finally spoke.

"As I said, I'm Dorothea Polenin, the High Priestess of the Dreamweavers. You do know what a Dreamweaver is, don't you?"

Ginny nodded, taking a sip of tea, and frowned.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, child," Dorothea said, "the tea is just an illusion, go with it. But as I was saying. At least you know what you are. Who are your parents? Well, the women of the Dreamweaver line."

"My mother, Molly, her maiden name was Prewett. And then her mother, Eva, by the maiden name of Jones. After them, I don't know."

The woman seemed to consider this. "Molly Prewett and Eva Jones... Hmm, no wonder you're strong. And when did you start having the dreams?"

"What sort of dreams?" Ginny asked quietly. "I've always dreamed, as long as I can remember."

Dorothea frowned over her tea as she took another sip. "When did you discover you weren't dreaming your own dreams?"

"I found out a few months ago. I figured out that I'd been doing it since close to when I turned fifteen," Ginny admitted.

"And how old are you now?" Dorothea asked, her voice deceptively low.

"I'll be sixteen June the third."

Dorothea dropped her tea. A look of shock on her face, her mind seeming to go a thousand miles an hour. She took a deep breath, and the mended cup of tea was in her hand again, a frown on her face.

"Dumbledore is the headmaster at Hogwarts?" When Ginny nodded, Dorothea mimicked her and said, "I will need to have a meeting with him again. Tell me, Ginevra Weasley, when you were a child, did you go to your mother when you had your bad dreams?"

"Yes."

"And did it work?"

Ginny paused. "It did a lot of the time. But sometimes...well, after my second year, I stopped bothering her about it. I was a big girl then; I didn't need my mother to protect me. Why?"

"Because your mother is the strongest Dreamweaver Queen in the world right now. Because you may be even stronger if you are trained; you could become a Dreamweaver Priestess. Because Molly Prewett is trapped in the Remnants. And because you may be the only Dreamweaver powerful enough to bring her back."

Ginny froze. "What are the Remnants?"

Dorothea sighed, closing her eyes. "The Remnants is the place where Broken Dreams are sent when you wake up and the rest of the dream fades away. When a Dreamweaver is broken, her mind destroyed, her mind is sent there. Her body remains, but she is insane, seeing Broken Dreams and visions unfulfilled."

"How did my mother get in the Remnants?" she asked quietly.

Dorothea took another sip of tea, appearing to consider this. "A young Dreamweaver Attendant, Jeannette Livingston, went too deep into a trance, and her mind veered off course. She dove, unsuspecting, into a Broken Dream and was thrown into the Remnants. Molly Prewett saved her, but she was caught in a particularly powerful Broken Dream and trapped there."

Ginny's eyes filled with tears as she looked at a sympathetic Dorothea. "Can you save her, Dorothea? Can you?" Ginny asked softly, her voice hitching.

Dorothea looked away. "I can't. I'm not...I'm not powerful enough to retrieve her or even save myself. No one has ever been that deep in the Remnants and been saved before. We would both be caught in the Remnants until our bodies died and after."

Ginny sniffed, looking up at the black jewel lighting the metaphysical tea table. "What is that?"

Dorothea seemed to relax. "That is your power. Dreamweavers carry a certain power over their gift; it distinguishes them from other Dreamweavers. Everyone has the same ability, same amount of ability to catch and make dreams. But the amount of control you have over it is determined by how dark your inner power is, how much power you have over the darkness. As you can see, yours is black. Mine is a very dark purple but not black. Your mother's is a dark ruby-red." She snorted. "Jeannette Livingston was barely pink."

"Can I save my mother?"

Dorothea frowned, looking again up at the crystal. "Yes."

"Will you teach me?"

"That's why I'm here, Ginevra," she snapped. The she sighed and looked at Ginny with something odd in her eyes. "I must leave now. But I will come to you in your dreams."

Ginny licked her lips and stood when Dorothea did. "Thank you, Dorothea. Thank you so much."

"Don't thank me yet," Dorothea snapped, standing proud. "And stop using that stupid dream catcher. Even Eva Jones couldn't make a dream catcher strong enough to hold off your dreams. She was a Ruby Dreamcatcher Queen, but she can't stop your dreams."

Ginny nodded. And more quickly than she could have expected, her world was swirling into a vortex and spitting her out into her bedroom. She groaned, pulling herself up into her bed. Though her head ached like no other, there wasn't the insistent pounding. After she drank some pain relief brew, she fell fast asleep.

* * *

_Question of L(ove)oyalty_

Draco frowned as he looked over his shoulder at Pansy Parkinson. Just because he'd avoided her all winter break, she was following him around like a dog. Draco smirked at his own little pun. She was a dog; she had the nose to prove it. And it didn't help that Millicent Bulstrode was accompanying her. Millicent was practically a man and, to tell the truth, made Draco rather uncomfortable.

So he ditched them around a corner that was invisible to the naked eye. He loved that corner. He loved the school, so many hiding places Filch didn't even know about. He could make it from the dungeons to Astronomy Tower in less than three minutes via three staircases and a left turn if he timed it right. But right now, he was headed for the Owlery.

His mother had promised to owl him soon with the latest information. Draco cringed when he entered the small, dank room. It smelt like nothing else. So hurriedly he tied a letter to Helene's foot, and she hooted, taking off at a speedy pace, her silver tipped wings shimmering in the distance.

Sighing, he made it back to his room and leaned back in his bed. It had been a long week, and soon he was going to see Ginny again. She was due in the Tower in not fifteen minutes. And because he loved her so very much, he regretted their relationship not being public.

Contrary to common belief, Slytherins didn't like sneaking around, not unless it was unavoidable. There were more chances to get caught if he sneaked around all the time. He was good, but every Slytherin knew that the chances of never getting caught were worse than Chudley's chances at the cup. He had to sneak around all the time at home and at school; the chances of getting caught were pretty damn good.

So Draco did what any good Slytherin would do, he covered his damn tracks. Feeding false information to his father and the other Slytherins had made them think he was a bit on the sick side. He was able to "sleep" longer than normal and "recover" from whatever he had.

But Draco wasn't sick, unless love was a disease.

It made him sick that he had to say those things he said to Ginny. He had to keep up appearances though, reinforce that they weren't friendly, that they hated each other. Draco had to work very hard at believing the hurt look in Ginny's eyes wasn't real, that it was forged in the name of keeping their secret.

It made him sick to hear her say things about him. She told them to Zabini, that damn poof who thought he was so damn high and mighty. She told them to the Creevey boy who Draco really didn't hate much but, because he got more of Ginny's time than Draco did, was especially unkind to. And she told them to Potty, her brother, and that Granger bitch. That was the worst. Knowing how she felt about them and knowing she pretended to like them and hate him.

Why would she do all this?

He asked it of himself over and over. He didn't really know. He didn't really know how he deserved his Ginny. Everything that made him a Slytherin and a Malfoy told him to drop her like a hot flobberworm. Then everything that made him a man told him to hold her and protect her and tell her every day how much he needed and thought about and – dare he say – loved her?

So he, naturally, had talked to his mother about it.

She was much more helpful than anything else he could have done. Draco had taken her out to an expensive dinner in a London wizarding restaurant when he'd got back from meeting Writer. She listened for a long time, eating slowly from her plate and listening to the violin. Then finally she had set her napkin on the table and had asked him something quietly.

"Do you love her, this Ginny of yours? Will she stay with you, no matter what? Will she help you and be loyal?"

Draco had considered this for a long while. He had leaned close to his mother, putting a Silencing Charm around their booth. "Yes, Mother, I do. And she's a Gryffindor, Mother; she is loyal."

His mother's eyes had gone all cloudy and distant, as if she was remembering something from a very long time ago. Her napkin went to her mouth, and a slight sob came from her lips. It was barely audible to Draco, barely noticeable. Her face cleared fast, becoming neutral.

"Good. Very good," she whispered, a small smile on her face as she fingered her blue jewel.

Draco had studied her, but it was in vain. She was completely blocked from him. He hadn't pressed her; he hadn't even asked her about it. Instead, he'd paid the check, gone out and bought her a nice diamond bracelet and asked her to wear it for him.

Draco sighed, contemplating his mother's reaction again. He rolled off his bed and made his way to Inverted Tower. Ginny would be waiting for him by now. He didn't want her to worry. So placing an intricate Locking Charm on his door, he headed down his secret passageway to Inverted Tower, placing different Locking Charms on every door he went through. Yes, he was paranoid, but he'd rather be paranoid and living than stupid and dead.

Upon reaching the tower, he took off his invisibility shroud, an upgrade of the invisibility cloak as it had many, many different accessories, pockets, abilities, etc. He hung it on the back of the door and entered.

At first he had to shield his eyes from the light. But his eyes adjusted, and he saw that the fireplace between North and South Windows was blazing uncontrollably. Sitting in front of it was Ginny. She wasn't facing it; she was facing him. Her eyes were dead, no pupil, only that terrifying bronze color that sparked in the light. Her hand was palm up and open, and she was looking at something in the middle of it.

"Ginny," he said carefully.

He knew what had happened to the Weasel, her brother, when he got her angry. He got burned. If Pomfrey wasn't as proficient as she was, he would probably be dead. And right now, looking into Ginny's eyes, he could see anger, but hopefully not at him.

"Ginny," he repeated slowly, taking a cautious step in her direction. His hands were visible, and his pace steady as he walked towards her.

"It's me, Ginny. It's Draco. Calm down. Come back here. To me, Ginny, to me."

Her head tilted to the side in exhaustion, and then she straightened. Draco's eyes widened as he saw what was in her hand. Levitating inches above her palm was a ball, not too big, but also not that small, of flame. As soon as it appeared, it disappeared. The fireplace practically went out, and Ginny fell to the ground, her eyes rolling back. She coughed but stayed unconscious.

"Ginny!" Draco shouted. He leapt to her, thanking the gods and whoever else was listening for his quick Quidditch skills. She was breathing, though barely, and her eyelids were fluttering. It was a very good sign.

Draco whipped out his wand, creating a Cooling Spell and casting it on her. She was burning up. Not a surprise really. Her hair was too hot to touch safely, and her skin was like a hot bath, sweat pouring off her face. Maybe they were tears.

He sat her up, making her sit by the window as he opened it and let the fresh, almost spring breeze sooth her skin naturally. The wind seemed to pick up a bit as he did, and he was thankful himself for the little chill that entered the wind.

Conjuring up a glass of water, he chilled it and tried to pour some into Ginny's mouth. Her lips opened, and after a few sips, her breathing became normal, and her eyelids began to flutter again. She moaned, and Draco fought hard not to shake her and yell to never do that again. But he stayed his tongue and brushed her hair away from her head.

"What..." she mumbled tiredly. "What happened? Draco? Is that you?"

"Shh," Draco said calmly. "And just what were you doing?"

Ginny moaned, trying to sit up. Draco held her down and forced her to drink some more water.

"I was just practicing – like I always do," Ginny said in a whisper interrupted by a yawn. She licked her lips. "And there was this...this gate thing. And I stepped though it kind of. And I saw them."

"Who?" Draco asked quietly.

Ginny yawned, sitting up and facing him. "My...my real parents. The blood of my blood. The Elements." A distant look came into Ginny's eyes. "They gave me a key...to open the door. Do you know what I found?"

Draco shook his head but was almost too scared to ask.

"Power," Ginny whispered. "Lots of it. And it was mine, inside of me. Like Fire and Wind."

Draco looked at her blankly. "Did they say anything?"

Ginny looked out the window. "Yes."

"What?"

"That people deceived people for power."

Draco froze, his heart beating a thousand kilometers an hour. Did she know? Did she find out what Lucius wanted him to do? Maybe if he explained he didn't want to do it and he wasn't going to...

"Enemies are made in the name of it. Civilizations are built upon it and fall under it. Love is betrayed for it." Ginny looked from the window to him. "And that I would be betrayed more than one time in my life by the people I loved and hated the most." She swallowed hard. "And I'm scared of it."

Draco nodded, opening his arms. Ginny fell into them lightly and buried her head in his chest. Draco sighed and smoothed her slightly damp hair. "You won't do that again, will you?" he asked. "Go away like that, I mean. Or overwork yourself like that."

She shook her head, and Draco sighed again. "Good. Very good."

Her head popped up. "But I want to show you something."

He nodded, smiling. Sometimes she had such childlike innocence. It was hard for him to remember she was just a year younger than he. But then sometimes – Draco shivered in delight – sometimes he was reminded she was all too mature and she liked to do very mature things.

She composed herself, crossing her legs and sitting up straight in Indian position. She closed her eyes, and Draco caught a look of the magnificent aura of power she had. It was a silvery, metallic red color, and it shimmered all over her, making her skin glow and the cracks between her eyelids shine. Her hand went in front of her, between her chest and his, palm up and flat.

Then her eyes opened, and they shone with a bronze, almost terrifying light. Draco tried, unsuccessfully albeit, not to flinch. The fire danced in her palm, rotating in a tight ball. Around it there seemed to be whipping currents of wind. Her eyes flashed back to normal and rolled into the back of her head. The Fire and Wind dissolved, and she sighed, opening her eyes but looking rather tired.

"See," she whispered. "The more I practice, the more control I have. And I won't hurt people again."

Draco took one of her hands, holding it in his. "That wasn't your fault."

"But you said –" she began.

"He shouldn't have been such a prick. Your power was still vulnerable, young," he swallowed. "But it wasn't all your fault."

She nodded and then smiled.

* * *

_Retaining Youreslf, Part I_

It was dark. No, it was more than dark. It was perpetual blackness. More than the darkness scared Molly; the visions scared her. They were everywhere, waiting in groups until she passed by them. They would hit her hard and quick, the Broken Dreams. She'd been told of the place, been warned was more like it. Insanity was the effect to the body. But to the mind...

Who knew?

All Molly knew was she needed to get out. She kept on moving, trying to find the door, but everything was so big, so interminable. Everywhere she looked she saw labyrinths of terror and Broken Dreams. She had been lost in one for...well, she didn't rightly know how long. Time was immeasurable here. It could have been seconds, or it could have been centuries.

She avoided another Broken Dream trap and kept moving, not sure what was driving her any more. Ginny. She had to get to Ginny. She had to train her daughter. She had to bring Dumbledore the information.

But where to go?

There was no way of telling. Go left? Go right? Both led to pain and perhaps death. She didn't even know her left from right anymore. Up and down had no presence. Inside the vacuum, nothing made sense. In the vacuum, nothing was moldable. Usually she could make dreams to escape into. But here, in the godforsaken hellhole she found herself, she only had to work with Broken Dreams. Broken dreams weren't substance; they were lies.

Molly shivered, sending out a thought into the abyss.

_Ginny..._

* * *

_Aspects of Life_

Ginny shivered as though someone had walked over her grave. She could have sworn someone said her name. She looked at the clock on the wall. Transfiguration was almost out. It was her last class before spring holiday started. Ginny inhaled deeply and sighed. Spring break. She would do doubt be receiving more dreams from Dorothea.

Dorothea was a harsh taskmaster...or mistress, as it were…but she knew her stuff. Ginny felt confident and was getting better sleep because of her ability to shield and filter. Those were her weak points compared to building.

Building was wonderful.

There was no rush like feeling the threads of conscious slipping through her fingers and weaving around people's minds. The sheer exhilaration of the colors and the feels and sounds and tastes and the fact that she had control over it was intoxicating. She could send anything to anyone. She could even make dreams so real people thought that they actually happened. It was hard because of all the different aspects of real life (temperature, air density, gravity, clouds, wind, other people, voices, etc.), but she was even better at it than Dorothea now.

She learned that was some of what her mother was doing, dream manipulation. But also, in people's dreams, when asked something, people would answer. Or at least usually. It was a dream, and if it felt like a dream, they would dizzily go on with the vision. Dreamweavers could make them forget it actually happened. It was dangerous, but they could send it to the Remnants, make the dreamer wake before they finished the dream.

It was all hard work, but Ginny liked it. She loved it. And she was good at it. Soon, she reminded herself, soon, she would be good enough to save her mother.

* * *

_The Bodyguardº_

"Albus Dumbledore."

He smiled, turning from his phoenix and facing his visitor. She hadn't aged a day. Her skin was still pure as moonlight and her hair dark as night. Though there was a white lock of hair in the front of her head, Dumbledore knew better than to assume it was from age. She still stood tall and proud, despite her height, and still had the most luminescent green eyes he'd ever seen.

"Dorothea Polenin," Dumbledore said, rising and walking around his desk to pull back a seat for his guest, taking her outstretched hand and kissing it gentlemanly. "It's been ages, Dorothea, ages."

"Yes," she said mildly, sitting in her chair, brushing back her tightly-curled hair with a heavily-ringed hand. She favored him with a smile and continued. "As you must know, I'm here about Ginevra Weasley."

Dumbledore, now seated opposite Dorothea at his desk, nodded and offered her tea. She accepted and waited patiently. Her thin fingers itched slightly, betraying her real impatience.

"I have to say she is very talented," Dumbledore said after a while. "For a long time, without any training, she was shielding the whole school from bad dreams. She fed good dreams to us all; I even dreamt of Evangeline."

Dorothea's face was a mask until Evangeline came up. She frowned into her tea. "You know we all miss her, Albus. The Coven grieves her as much as you."

"Thank you, Dorothea. Even after all this time, it still means something to me that the Coven grieves. But," he said, tactfully changing the conversation, "you came to talk about Miss Weasley."

Dorothea nodded, setting down her tea gracefully and settling her hands in her lap. "Yes. I would like to take her for her spring holiday. I cannot instruct her through her conscious anymore. The training is good and hands on, but it leaves her options limited. I wish to take her to St. Petersburg with me for the week."

Dumbledore steepled his hands in front of him, looking over his half-moon lenses at her. Dorothea didn't flinch; she didn't even break eye contact.

"Under one condition," Dumbledore said finally.

Dorothea raised an eyebrow. "A condition," Dorothea said mildly. Dumbledore could sense the fury beneath it. "Well then, out with it."

"I want you to bring an Auror with you, the best we have. You need extra protection in St. Petersburg, Dorothea. You need Alastor Moody."

Dorothea stiffened automatically, her face turning five shades whiter white and her tea moving slowly back town to the table. She settled shaking hands in her lap and licked her lips. She blinked once, twice and then set her mouth in a small frown. "Albus, are you sure that is wise?"

"And why shouldn't it be?" he asked in an amused tone.

Dorothea mumbled something like, "Oh, yes, you old badger, play ignorant now," and rolled her eyes, color coming back to her face. "I see. Is that the only way I'll be taking Ginevra to Russia this spring?"

Dumbledore nodded gravely. After a tense moment, Dorothea nodded her head tersely and said quite primly, "Very well. It was nice visiting with you, Albus."

Dumbledore rose, taking her hand when she stood and walking her to the door. "It is always a pleasure to see you, Dorothea. We should have tea more often; I've been reading the most wonderful dream interpretation books lately."

Dorothea nodded imperiously. "Perhaps. Send my regards to young Minerva. Tell her the Coven misses her deeply, and she should visit us in Selene soon."

"I will," Dumbledore assured her as she left, her stride slow and purposeful. And when she was out of hearing, he murmured again, "I will."

He sighed, sitting again at his desk, intent on calling an old friend. The Floo powder went in the fireplace, and a mere whisper of a name brought the head of Alastor Moody into view. His scarred face appeared in the hearth, and Dumbledore smiled. "Alastor! I have good news!"

Alastor frowned. "Indeed."

It only made Dumbledore smile wider. "Oh, yes. A mission in fact. You will be going to Russia for the spring, St. Petersburg actually."

"Is that so?" Alastor grumbled, his electric blue eye shooting about Dumbledore's office. "And I don't suppose you are going to tell me the mission."

"Bodyguard for Ginevra Weasley and Dorothea Polenin. Ginevra will be staying over holiday with her."

Dumbledore watched as both of Alastor's eyes focused on him, the same pale color coming to his face as came to Dorothea's. Though, to his credit, he recovered faster. "No."

"Oh, yes," Dumbledore said with a smile. "You will be escorting Miss Weasley to the Polenin Mansion outside of St. Petersburg and staying there with them for the week of spring recess. You will escort them back and then return to your duties."

"There isn't anyone else?" Alastor said a bit too hopefully.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

Alastor sighed. "Fine." He paused for a long time. "She was just here, wasn't she?"

Dumbledore nodded.

"How was she?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Ask her for yourself; you'll see her in forty-eight hours."

Alastor snorted and blinked out of the fire. Leaning back in his seat, Dumbledore reflected that everything was going on plan. In a little less than a week, Molly Weasley should be out of the Remnants, and Operation Dreamland would be able to continue. A smile graced his face. Yes, everything would work out.

* * *

_Parting Is Such...Sorrowº_

Draco paced his room, the letter he was holding burning a hole in his hand. He frowned as he tossed it on his bed. From his father, typically, asking for updates. Asking for news, for victory, for control and success. How did one go about telling one's father (who was, of course, the right hand man of the most feared tyrant since Grindelwald) that one didn't want to be a Death Eater anymore? Well, telling would be easy enough. Living though, now that would be a problem.

Draco growled, picking up the letter again and re-reading it, making sure he wasn't mistaking anything.

_Draco – _

_Since you are nearing the end of your sixth year, our master has requested a meeting with us. You will be attending; make no mistake. _

_I have made necessary arrangements with the school board, relating our demands for a private tutor to educate you for the remaining days of school. You will be going to Norway, the Netherlands, and possibly Sweden, so pack warm. _

_You will be returning to school in your seventh year. _

_You have no choice. I will pick you up at the school tonight. _

– _Lucius_

Draco threw the letter in the fire, watching it burn. That bastard. He still controlled his life. He still made the decisions. He still could make him do whatever he wanted. He could still make his life a living hell.

Growling, he began throwing things into his trunk. How was he going to explain things to Ginny? He was sure she would understand. She had to. And if she didn't, he would have to explain it to her. His father controlled him through his mother. Lucius only had to mention the prospect of Draco's mother's wellbeing, and Draco had to roll over. After all his mother had done for him, Draco had to protect her.

After everything conceivable was packed into his trunk, Draco got a spare quill and parchment and settled at his desk, chewing on the quill for a moment.

_My dearest Writer, _

_I regret to inform you that I have been called to duty. I cannot tell you where or what sort of duty, so excuse the shortness of this message. _

_I will not be returning to Hogwarts for the remainder of the year. In fact, I will be abroad with a tutor. Certain things have come up, and though we cannot communicate this summer, I will see you the first of September in my seventh year. _

_Be safe, Writer, you are all I have. Practice, but not too hard. You will be able to spend some more time with your other friends now. I ask you not to contact me unless it is extremely important. _

_I'm sorry again for the brevity. _

_With all my heart, _

_Reader _

Draco read over it and nodded, sliding it in a thick envelope and hurrying to Inverted Tower. Out of breath and still angry, he placed it on the North Window.

That was until he noticed a pale envelope sitting on the window. A seal of thick, red wax closed it, and "Reader" was written in scrawling handwriting that could only be Ginny's. It smelled of her. Draco smiled briefly before tucking it into his shirt and leaving the tower, closing the doors after him. He would have to read it when he was safe.

Doing a sweeping check of his materials, Draco left, charming his trunk to follow him as he went down the stairs. It was late on Friday night; most people in his House were packing to go home. A few that had finished were congregating near the fire, talking loudly. Draco caught Quidditch and something about a Gryffindor and moved on.

"Draco, darling!" Pansy said cheerfully. Draco tried not to groan as he turned around and stared the fat little bitch down. "Where are you going, Draco, dear? It's too early to bring your things down to the hall."

"Unfortunately," Draco said in a tired voice, "my father has arranged for the rest of my sixth year studies to be abroad. I will have a private tutor for the rest of my education this year. I will be coming back next year, however."

"But, Draco, baby," Pansy whined. Draco wanted to kill her when she put her filthy, Parkinson hands on his arm. "What about tonight?"

Heads turned. Voices stopped. Draco's jaw clenched, and he grabbed Pansy roughly by the arm and hauled her into the hall, slamming her against the wall. She "eeped," her eyes growing wide with fear as Draco moved very close to her face, looming over her. Her eyes began to tear.

"D-d-draco, baby, you're hurting me!" she cried, tears running down her face.

Draco froze. He let go of her roughly, and she hit the floor, shaking. His face grew cold, and he crossed his arms. "If you ever do that again, Parkinson, I'll make sure you wish you never lived. I'm not even going to touch you; I'm going to make you suffer though. Don't act like you own me, and don't act like you've been in my bed. If I ever hear anyone even insinuating that, I'll fulfill my promise. Don't ever forget that. Do you understand me, Parkinson?"

She nodded weakly, her arms bringing her legs to her chest.

Draco sneered, calling his trunk to him, and he kept walking until he reached the Hall and went out the front doors. He frowned when he saw three figures in the dark, all standing by a carriage. It couldn't be his father; his father was never early.

He looked closer and saw it was Dumbledore and Moody. Not surprising. Draco had learned from his father that the two had gone to Hogwarts together and were childhood friends. Draco snorted and studied the third person.

They turned.

"Ginny," he whispered.

She said something to Dumbledore then climbed into the carriage; Moody went in after her with a sarcastic salute to Dumbledore. Dumbledore watched the carriage go off, and Draco saw him cast something on it. Draco frowned. What the hell was going on?

His mind wandered to the letter, and his hand went to his heart where a pocket held it. Where was she going? What was Dumbledore setting up? And why?

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said amiably.

Draco stiffened. And how the hell did Dumbledore do that? "Headmaster," Draco said curiously.

Dumbledore smiled a friendly smile and looked out at the moon. His glasses reflected the light, and Draco found it slightly unnerving. "I am truly sorry to see you go, Mr. Malfoy. Hopefully, you will return next year."

"I was planning to, Headmaster, sir," Draco replied, looking at the moon as well.

Dumbledore sighed. "I think we will all miss her," Dumbledore said lightly.

"Who?"

"Oh, Miss Weasley. She is headed to St. Petersburg," Dumbledore said, casting a sidelong glance at Draco. Then he turned to Draco, facing him so that Draco could see his eyes. "You know, Mr. Malfoy, forgiveness, when asked from the right person, can be much easier to obtain than permission."

"Is that so, Headmaster?" Draco said, trying not to let the hope he felt drip into his voice.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Malfoy. As it turns out, I'm most adept to listening to pleas for it. In fact, usually a plea isn't even needed or wanted. Just the admission."

Draco swallowed. "Why are you telling me this, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore shrugged. "I don't rightly know. Some people call my rambling problem a symptom of old age. Others claim it's always been there and it is caused by improper amounts of blood reaching my brain. I rather think I just don't know when to stop talking. Good night, Mr. Malfoy. I do hope you look forward to your place as Head Boy next year."

Draco watched with a blank expression as Dumbledore entered the brightly lit hallway and disappeared into the warm castle.

"Draco."

Draco sighed. It was his father. A silent goodbye to the castle was all he had time to do.

* * *

ºThor's Hammer – The Norse god Thor, son of Odin, had a magical hammer called Mjööllnir that would always strike his foes and return to him when thrown. He also had a magical belt called Megingiord that would double his strength if worn.

ºThe Bodyguard – a movie starting Whitney Houston and Kevin Kostner (Costner?)

ºParting Is Such…Sorrow – reference to Juliet's line in Romeo and Juliet Act 2, Scene 2, "Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow!"

* * *

**CHRONOLOGY: ** I read _Order of the Phoenix_ like seven times, trying to decide what I was going to do about my story. I've decided that from this chapter on, all of it will be in line with Order except the fact that Draco's dad was put in Azkaban at the end of book five. As of this point, Sirius is dead. I'm sorry; I loved him, too.


	8. Under the Waves

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER EIGHT:**

**Under the Waves**

* * *

_A Drive in the Country_

Ginny frowned at the gentle bumping of the carriage. It had been making her sick for a kilometer. Just how big was Dorothea's Anti-Apparition Shield anyway? Fighting the urge to puke, she looked out the window and sighed. St. Petersburg was far behind them. They'd Portkeyed in to a pit stop at St. Petersburg State University, where famous sociologist Roman Mogilevsky met them. Mogilevsky was a wizard working in secret for the Russian government. Moody spoke Russian, so translating wasn't a problem, but Mogilevsky spoke perfect English.

Mogilevsky had shown them to their carriage, given them some advice, and sent them on their way. Now, Ginny was again in a carriage and was heading to Dorothea's house. She was excited, she supposed. Mainly because she was going to meet Dorothea in person.

Ginny didn't know what to think of Moody. She'd met him once, the real Moody, but hadn't talked to him. It wasn't as if he scared her, but he was rather terrifying looking. And he was big. Ginny wondered about stable too. Dumbledore told her that after the incident in her third year, St. Mungo's had improved his psychological condition with the latest healing and sanity-inducing charms. It didn't make her any more comfortable. She wished Dumbledore hadn't told her anything.

Ginny almost gasped as they pulled up to the house. It was huge! It looked white and pristine from where she was. As she got closer, she saw huge gardens and fountains; rose bushes were in magical bloom, and the towering, crystal windows were bright and lined with plants and ivy. The driveway led to an overhang where an outdoor chandelier hung, lighting the drive in the overcast afternoon.

Moody opened the door for her, and she stepped out, eyes flashing over the house. She took in the ivy. To the naked, Muggle eye, it was just ivy. To her and any wizard with the slightest idea of what a rune was, it was an intricate design of highly powerful protective and warning runes. Ginny smiled at it, placing it in line with Dorothea's personality.

She heard Moody grunt as the door opened. Dorothea stood in the doorway, an unreadable expression on her face. She stood like that for a while, her lips pressed together, her face tight, her eyes hard and, Ginny noticed, not on her.

"Dorothea," Moody grunted. It was the first word Ginny had heard them say besides "watch your head" when she almost ran into a low hanging sign at the university.

Dorothea stiffened again, her lips taut. "Alastor."

They stared each other down, neither backing away.

"Ginevra," Dorothea said calmly, still not looking at her. After a moment, a smile, an unwilling one, albeit, broke onto her face, and she faced Ginny. "So nice to have you, dear. Come along now, I'm not going to bite."

"Hello, Dorothea," Ginny said politely. "Your house is beautiful. And huge. Do you live here alone?"

"My nieces, Carlotta and Ursula, come with their families every so often," Dorothea said as Ginny walked up the stairs and into the beautiful home. "They won't be here this week though."

The house was large and decorative without being gaudy or flamboyant. Rich greens, blues and reds mingled on the thick rugs, the wood floors opening up to dark, cream-colored walls. Intricate oil paintings lined the walls, along with assorted vases and other clay sculptures sitting on wooden tables. Hallways stretched out from the main hall, measuring the length of the house.

Dorothea brought them into a large dining area, places set for three and delicious food on the table. Ginny sat, still in awe of everything around her. She had never been in a house this inviting or this grand. The high ceiling had Sistine Chapel-esque paintings of angels and cupids, dancing in a sun-drenched sky of clouds. The long, wooden table looked like it could seat fifty comfortably, seventy otherwise.

Ginny ate sparingly, not really paying attention to the fact that there was dead silence in the room until the meal ended and Dorothea turned to her.

"Well, Ginevra," she said mildly, "would you like to see some more of the house? It isn't that long of a tour, and I'm sure Alastor will want to know everything about everything that goes on in this house."

"Um, I would enjoy that, Dorothea," Ginny said, completely baffled.

Dorothea smiled, set her napkin on the table, and stood. "This way now."

She led them through an arched hallway, similar to the first, except different paintings. "There are two wings, the north and the south. The north has the bedrooms, guestrooms, etcetera. The south contains the studies, libraries, billiard room, kitchens, dining room, dancing room, and a few trophy rooms."

She opened a door, and there were books as high as the mind could imagine. Books upon books upon books lined the walls. The ceiling was enchanted with clouds, and the books went that high.

"As you can see, the main library. The doors all lead to private studies." Dorothea closed the doors and moved on.

"Out behind the house is a hedge maze. I wouldn't recommend it though, Ginevra; it likes to change. Behind the maze are the stables, behind the stables is the lake, and behind the lake are the pasturelands for the horses. All around us for about fifteen kilometers are my house lands, mostly pasture, forest, and lakes."

Another door was presented as a beautiful ballroom opened to them. The magnificent chandelier looked as if it must have weighed a ton. Well, perhaps not that much, but it looked heavy. The floor was marble, and the ceiling again decorated with angelic scenes.

After closing the door, Dorothea continued, walking up a flight of stairs. "The house is a little over 150 years old and was designed by the Scottish architect, Charles Cameron. Cameron designed such palaces for Catherine the Great at Pavlovsk and Tsarskoe Selo. The design is original and the paintings, too."

They headed towards the north wing as Dorothea continued her commentary. "Though Cameron was a Muggle, his designs for 'sneaky' entrances, trap doors, etcetera, were far beyond his time. When the Russian wizarding family Mogilevsky sold it to me, they had owned it for nearly seventy-five years. The family was an old, noble family from tsarist Russia and had charmed so many rooms, doors, hallways, etcetera, that it took Fidelius Flitwick, Albus and me three days to discover and break most of them.

"And these," pushing open a wooden set of double doors to display a lavish bedroom and turning to Ginny, "are your rooms, Ginevra. My rooms," she said, pointing up, "are on the fourth and top floor, the master room. Alastor, your rooms are on the third, between Ginevra and me. I trust you will be able to find it and the passages that lead to every room in the house. Yes, yours is the room that can do that. I have to talk with Ginevra, so here is a map."

She handed Moody an old parchment and smiled tersely. Moody only grunted and headed to the stairs. Ginny watched as Dorothea visibly relaxed and headed into Ginny's new rooms. Ginny's trunk was already there, and her things were unpacked.

The room was...generous, to say the least. The huge four-poster looked almost petite inside the room. It was dark green and blue, the carpets meshing with the bedspread and wallpapered walls. It was magnificent, all the way to the ivory and marble bathroom.

"Dorothea," Ginny began, turning to the smiling Russian aristocrat, "this is –"

"Beautiful, I know," Dorothea said. "I had them redesigned for you. But now I think you're going to have to get some sleep. Tomorrow we'll start lessons."

Ginny nodded, and Dorothea closed the doors lightly behind her. A smile broke out on Ginny's face as she turned to the bed and immediately hopped on it. Burying her face in the fresh fabric, she sighed, thinking of Draco, and went to sleep.

* * *

_Click the Focus Button_

"Well, what did you expect? You have to focus," Dorothea drawled.

She rolled her eyes as Ginny fell down on the pillows lining the floor. Ginny groaned and rubbed her head. How was she ever supposed to let herself drift down to the Remnants if she couldn't follow a Broken Dream?

"But I don't even have anything to tag onto," Ginny complained. "If I was tethered to something, a Broken Dream, I could make it down there."

Dorothea frowned and sipped her tea, looking down on Ginny from her seat at the table. They were in the library. Ginny sniffed and looked up at the clouds. They weren't like the clouds at Hogwarts. These clouds seemed to be real or near to it. She wondered if they rained.

"The reality of it, Ginevra," Dorothea said sharply, "is that you can't go down into the Remnants tethered to a Broken Dream and expect to make it out again. You would get caught in an undercurrent. You'll just have to keep meditating."

"Down and down and down we go; when we surface, nobody knows," Ginny mumbled grumpily.

"Where is a better question," Dorothea said. "Now try again. Deep thoughts now. Like you are under the water. Down, down, swimming down to the dark world beneath. Down, down, down..."

Ginny took a deep breath, sprawling on the pillows and closing her eyes to the clouds above her. Down, down, down...swim down, Ginevra...down, down, down...deep thoughts...down, down, down... Ginny found herself relaxing and let herself in the familiar door into the center of her mind. Deeper, now, Ginevra... So she went deeper, delving into her dream state and letting the magic wash over her. It was steady and organized, or as organized as the mind could truly be. Deeper...deeper...down into the deep...

It was like being tossed in cold water. Ginny sputtered and tried to keep her wits about her, to calm down. It was dark, so dark. And big...so big. There was no light, an unending pitch, a vortex. It was unnatural. She had to get out; she had to breathe. Floundering, she felt a force pulling her down.

_NO! _

She formed a shield around herself to protect her mind. She swam upwards, forcing the Broken Dreams away as she ascended.

And she could breathe. She sat up, grasping her throat, but found she wasn't out of breath at all.

"Ginevra!" Dorothea said, relief written in her voice. She was crouched by the ground, kneeling on a few pillows, her face worried and lined with concern. "Are you all right? Ginevra, talk to me."

Ginny looked around the room, slightly confused. "Am I in a Broken Dream?"

"No," Dorothea sighed, sitting back on her haunches. "No, you are here with me, Ginevra. Gods! Where did you go? All of a sudden, you were writhing on the floor, screaming you couldn't see and couldn't breathe."

Ginny tried to sit, but the firm hand of Dorothea rested on her shoulder, the older woman's eyes pinning her down. "I went to the Remnants," Ginny whispered, looking about her. "Are you sure this isn't a Broken Dream?"

Dorothea only sighed again. "No, this is no Broken Dream, Ginevra."

Ginny swallowed and finally sat up. "You're right, Dorothea," she said. "I would have been lost had I tried to weight myself on a Broken Dream."

Dorothea nodded.

"But I can't see anything," Ginny pondered. "I need a lantern...and maybe some oxygen. I can't breathe in there. It's this huge vacuum of nothing. Even the Broken Dreams are just ghosts. Really powerful ghosts."

"You saw nothing then?" Dorothea asked, helping Ginny up to the table.

Ginny shook her head. "No, but I think I have an idea."

"Oh," Dorothea said. She poured some tea and put a restoring tonic in it, handing it to Ginny.

Ginny took a delicate sip and found it tasted quite good. "This isn't bad."

"If it were bad, no one would drink it. Now, as you were saying."

"Oh, yes," Ginny said numbly, taking another sip. "Well, I was thinking maybe I could make a dream to tether myself to. Not a Broken Dream, but my own dream. In the dream state, I could rescue my mother, bring us out on my own dream."

Dorothea looked at Ginny harshly. "Make a dream for yourself? As in, send it to yourself."

"Well, yes," Ginny said, a bit uncertain now. "Why not?"

Dorothea snorted. "Well, it's only that Dreamweavers can't do that. And if we could, they probably wouldn't be strong enough to withstand the Remnants. They rip normal people's dreams to shreds; ours wouldn't withstand any better. Besides, Artificial Dreams are weaker than real."

"I'm good at Artificial Dream Animation," Ginny pouted, finishing off the cup of tea and pouring another.

"Yes," Dorothea agreed. "Yes, you are good at it. But you still need practice. You have the ability to be the best, Ginevra. I think you can save your mother, but I also think you need to practice."

"So that's it. Practice? No hints, no suggestions? Just 'practice'?" Ginny said, her voice on edge.

Dorothea's eyes narrowed. "It is all you can do; for now, that is. You will take your Loom and Weave an Artificial Dream thick and strong enough to ride down to the depths of the Remnants. You will take your mother back with you. And you can't do it without practice."

Ginny stared at her. Dorothea didn't break eye contact or flinch, merely stared Ginny down and remained calm. "It's all you can do now, Ginevra," she said.

After a moment, Ginny sighed and nodded. Then she stood, making her way to some of the books.

"You should probably wait for a while," Dorothea said primly. "Your energy is taxed. Perhaps you should start Weaving tonight, and you can continue until I think you have it good enough. Then we'll start discussing how to get you down to your mother."

Ginny nodded, eyes following her fingers as she brushed them past the books on the walls, thinking absently how Hermione would have loved this place. Sighing, she looked at Dorothea. She was reading something, though Ginny didn't catch the title. Another sigh and she coughed politely. "I'm going to get something to eat and then take a nap. I'm feeling tired; you're right. I'll start Weaving tonight."

Dorothea only nodded as Ginny left.

* * *

_What Have You Learned?_

A chill wind whipped up and down the tops of the tall pines. The stars shone dully, and no moon peaked about the canopy of the trees. Draco thought he could see the lights of the Aurora Borealis flitting above him and to the north. But then, there was a Death Eater strike to the north of him. He shivered and pulled his fur coat up around his cheeks, thanking the gods for the fur-lined hat he wore. Looking over at his father, he frowned.

Lucius was standing calmly, wand drawn, waiting for the rest of the members to return. Draco hadn't been invited on the purging mission of Alta, Norway . Draco didn't regret it either. He would have had to kill, something he'd never wanted to do. His father be damned; he wasn't going to end up like that. So putting on the most superior façade he had, Draco sneered at each Death Eater as they entered the clearing.

For all his persistence, Lucius still hadn't broken Draco, and Draco wasn't going to let that happen. Not now that he had Ginny, and certainly not now that he knew Dumbledore would accept him if he turned over to The Cause.

It almost made Draco snort. The Cause. What bullshit. The Cause didn't even know what was going on. The Cause wasn't strong enough to stop this. They couldn't predict what places the Death Eaters would strike, what Voldemort's game was.

"Draco," Lucius cooed, breaking Draco's train of thought. "Now tell me, son, what have you learned?"

Lucius asked him this after every purge. What had he learned? Muggles were weak, and drunken wizards were weaker. What had he learned? Disobeying Voldemort meant death and sometimes even worse. What had he learned? If he was going to escape, he was probably going to have to fake his own death because the Death Eaters would keep looking for him until he died.

That was why they were in Alta, Norway . They were tracking down a renegade Death Eater and massacring countless innocent Muggles as a cover-up. They'd been on two of these missions. Draco remembered what happened to the first man they caught. It had been in central Africa. Voldemort had placed him in a sun-amplifying cage and left him in the middle of the Serengeti. The man had cooked to death. Slowly.

So what had he learned? "They fight braver drunk than sober."

It earned a low chuckle from his father, and Draco thought he was going to kill himself when Dolohov landed an arm over his shoulders as he laughed. Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. He sighed and looked out at the Aurora .

He wondered what he would tell Ginny when she asked where he went and what he did. The truth? Could she handle the truth? What if he was forced into being a Death Eater? Would she accept him? Would she still love him if he killed someone?

"Come now, the authorities will be here shortly." His father turned to a man in black. "You, set off the Mark and Disapparate last."

The man nodded, and the rest of the Death Eaters Apparated to a safe spot. It was in Oslo, not too far out in the country but on a farm-like setting. It was Dolohov's summer home. And though the lake was frozen over now, it was stocked full of fish in the summer and fall. Draco remembered it from when he was a little boy.

They entered the country house, the group of twelve, and Draco's father dismissed him to talk to the initiated Death Eaters. Just as well, as far as Draco was concerned. He didn't want to be in the room of child-raping, women-whoring Death Eaters any more than they wanted him there.

So when he fell in his bed, he reached into his coat pocket, the one next to his heart, and took out the many-folded, much-loved, multi-read letter. It was from Ginny...well, Writer. It was the last letter she had written him before he had to go, the one she left on the windowsill in Inverted Tower.

_Dear Reader, _

_With all my heart, I hope this finds you well. After all the things I meant to say in this letter, I don't think any of them will come out quite right. Suffice to know I am thinking of you and wish you happiness. _

_For you see, I've been called away for spring holiday. I have a mission of sorts that needs to be taken care of. It has to do with my mother; she is in grave danger. I cannot tell you where I'm going or why exactly, but rest assured I will be kept safe. The maximum amount of security is being provided for my safety. _

_I want you to know I'll be thinking of you while I'm gone. Every moment I have will be devoted to a memory, and every memory will be in your name. I send my love and hope to see you well when school resumes. _

_With all my undying love, _

_Writer_

Draco shivered again after he read it. After folding it carefully, lovingly, into a small square, he tucked it into his pocket and patted it for reassurance. He was going to get through this because of Ginny. For Ginny. To be with Ginny. So when school started in the fall, he could go to Dumbledore and tell him everything he knew. So when he saw her again, he could confess everything.

Draco sighed and rolled onto his stomach, trying to push down the fire he felt when he thought of her. Her hair, her eyes, her skin, her slight dimples, her generous curves, the way she stretched after she stood, her lips, her ears, her neck, that habit of caressing her lips with a quill as she thought, her shoulders, her legs, and who could forget her voice?

Groaning, he turned back over and looked out his window at the newly risen moon. He could only hope Ginny was looking at the same moon...

His door opened and closed quickly and quietly as a shadow. Draco jumped gracefully to his feet, wand drawn, but not in time to steady himself before the sharp whisper rattled the panes and his wand flew from his fingers.

"_Expelliarmus!_"

Draco almost felt intimidated by the tall, dark figure of his Potions professor. But he sighed, running his fingers though his hair, and glared at Snape. He hated it when he did that. Closing the blinds and frowning, he turned to Snape.

"What do you want?" he asked cautiously. He knew Snape knew something, and he knew Snape was loyal to The Cause. He learned so much valuable information via Ginny. Her brother and Potty really were idiots if they thought their whispers weren't heard by her cute little ears.

Snape growled, flipping his wand back at him. "I thought you were someone else. You don't usually let your guard down like that, Malfoy."

Draco snorted. "I was thinking. Now, we better make this fast, or Lucius will suspect something. Do you have it?"

Snape nodded, taking the medallion out of his shirt and pulling over his head. "All you have to do is say 'listen' and the name of the person whose voice you want to record. Once you do that, play along and try not to bring attention to it."

Draco nodded, looping the leather string over his head and fingering the silver, circular medallion briefly before tucking it into his shirt. "Thanks," he said to Snape with a nod.

Snape eyed him carefully, a sneer fading on his face and a look of worry, and maybe concern, drifting into his eyes. "Take care of yourself, Draco. I'm leaving this company, joining the group with the Flints. They'll be in England, closer to Voldemort."

"I will," Draco said darkly.

Snape looked at him with unreadable eyes. "In the event you're discovered, you can contact me through that. But it will reveal both of us. Don't do it unless you absolutely must."

Draco nodded again.

Another unreadable look from Snape and he swept from the room, his robes billowing behind him. Draco sat on the bed and put his head between his hands. How was he going to pull this off? How was he going to stay alive? Snape had been strong, so he could be strong.

Alone, in the middle of a group of Death Eaters, he would collect incriminating evidence, and when term began again, he could give it to Dumbledore. He took some of his self-brewed No Sleep Potion and waited. The possibility of getting killed in this house was much higher than in his own, and he didn't want to take any chances.

* * *

_The Trouble with Memories, Part II_

Dorothea closed her book and looked at Ginny. She was still meditating, Weaving. She looked calm and controlled like that, her legs crossed in front of her and her eyes closed. She was going to be powerful; Dorothea could feel it. She could feel it in her bones, in her blood and, yes, in her heart. No one had touched Dorothea's heart for a long time until Ginny had come.

She had friends in the Coven, and her nieces visited often with their growing families, but no one had been more of a companion than Ginny. She was like the daughter Dorothea never had but had always longed for. She had her touches of temperament and fire but was also caring and human. Dorothea smiled at the fact that they didn't necessarily always need to talk about Dreamweaving.

Ginny sighed, opening her eyes. She smiled and said, "I think I've got a good one."

Dorothea nodded, setting down her book and opening her mind to Ginny's. And then she was in Ginny's Loom, her inner Weaving Circle. The threads were tight, organized, and strong. They seemed to be sturdy and giving at the same time, almost perfect. But there were loose threads, a few runs in the perfect dream fabric.

Dorothea was very proud. To have come that far in the small amount of time was an accomplishment indeed, a very great one. Most Dreamweavers worked for years before they were able to make an Artificial Dream even half that good. A fifteen-year-old girl had done it in just a few months. And Dorothea had taught her. It made her smile inwardly as she thought of how clever and talented Ginny was.

"So?" Ginny asked expectantly, her hauntingly bronze eyes shining hopefully. "Is it good enough?"

Dorothea smiled. "This is very good, Ginevra, very good indeed. Many Dreamweavers would be honored to have Weaved an Artificial Dream that well. But to go down in the Remnants, you are going to have to make it perfect. No runs and no loose threads."

Ginny sighed and shook her head. "Tomorrow I will get it."

"I'm sure you will," Dorothea said lightly. "But now you will have to go off to bed and have a good rest. Tomorrow you will Weave a new one on a new Loom, and we'll test it."

Ginny nodded and made her way out of the library. Dorothea smiled sadly after her, taking her wand and Banishing the pillows to the far side of the library on one of the large couches. The books Dorothea was reading went into their respective places, and she turned off the lights in the library before closing the doors.

She walked down to the kitchen, intent on getting a brew of Dreamless Sleep from her stores. The girl was just too damn strong. Even her shields didn't hold through the girl's Filtering Weave. It was a strong Weave that only allowed the best dreams to enter the person's mind. And for Dorothea, waking up with some of those memories fresh on her mind hurt. Happy memories weren't all they were made out to be.

So, cup in hand, she made her way up to her rooms. Just that act brought her by his rooms. She shivered when she passed his door, trying to fight back the urge to burst in and give him a piece of her mind. But she kept walking, breathing deeply as she continued down the hall.

"Should you really be drinking that?" a deep, baritone voice said from behind her. "It's addictive."

Dorothea froze, knowing who it was. He must have come through one of the passageways. She turned slowly, placed the brew on a table with a vase and stared him in the eye. He had a few more scars than when she last saw him twenty years ago. One less eye and one less leg. But it didn't stop her from remembering all the things that had happened...and all the things that hadn't.

She tilted her chin defiantly and said sharply, "I don't see how it's any of your business, but yes, I think I should be drinking it. Would you like some?"

He just snorted and came over to it, checking it for poisons no doubt. She remained still, trying to not let her emotions show. When he appeared satisfied, he turned, both of his eyes on her. She couldn't see emotion in the blue one. The black one held pain, but Dorothea couldn't read the other emotions.

"What?" he grunted, looking down on her.

Dorothea remained calm and said quietly, "Nothing, Alastor. Nothing at all."

Sighing, Dorothea turned from him and reached out for the glass of Dreamless Sleep. That was when she heard it. And it stopped her cold.

"Thea...don't turn away like that."

Her hand dropped to her side, and she turned to face him. He looked broken, both physically and emotionally. His eye held sorrow, pain, hope, so many things. His posture was defeated, and his thin lips parted slightly.

"Thea," he whispered again, "you don't have to be like this."

She swallowed and said in a hard voice, "Yes, I do, Alastor. Yes, I do."

"Why?"

"Because you hurt me," Dorothea said in a small voice, wrapping her arms around her stomach and looking up at him through her eyelashes. "Because you hurt me so much I had to."

"That was the past," Moody grumbled, soft and firm at the same time. "This is now, Thea; this is now. Move past it. We all did things we didn't want. We all sacrificed. When it happened, it happened; we can't change it."

Dorothea's eyes shot at him. "Move past it? Move past it?" she whispered harshly. "When did you ever move past it? You lived in it for years! Decades! You chased them so long you forgot why! You forgot me! You forgot us! It hurt, Alastor. And now I hurt!"

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I am truly sorry, Thea. I only did what needed to be done. If I hadn't, then no one else would have."

Dorothea chose not to respond to that. Instead, she hung her head and let the tears come. He was so damn noble! Why were all those Gryffindor so damnably noble? And why did she have to love one? She should have just stayed in St. Petersburg and married a nice Durmstrang boy like her father wanted! But no! Albus Dumbledore, Alastor Moody, and Evangeline Laferriere had to fly into her life, and look where it had got her. Broken-hearted and emotionally scarred. And why? All for a man.

"Did you ever love me?" Dorothea asked desperately. "Even once, did you care?"

"Yes," Moody said. "Of course I did! Why else would I have said it? I could never lie to you, Thea, not ever."

Dorothea stood there in silence for a while, tears ready to leak out of her eyes any moment. She knew she must look a wreck. And weak. She must have looked terribly weak. She didn't care.

"And now?" she whispered lowly. "Do you still love me, Alastor?"

He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes hard and determined. "I never stopped, Thea. I said I would never stop, and I never have."

"Oh, Alastor..." Dorothea sobbed, a tear trickling down the side of her face.

"Thea..."

And they were crushed together, Dorothea forgetting all shame or pain when his lips reached hers and his arms held her again. The memories brought floods of joy and happiness, and she kissed him with vivid fervor. She could feel her heart beating faster and faster as the seconds rolled into minutes. Finally he released her, holding her tiny form to his chest and breathing into her hair.

"I won't leave you again, Thea," he said quietly, kissing the top of her head. Bracing her shoulders with his large hands, he pulled her back and looked into her eyes. "I love you."

Dorothea smiled through her tears. "I know, Alastor," she said firmly, wondering how it would feel to wake up in his arms again.

* * *

_Retaining Yourself, Part II_

What was her name? Where was she? She couldn't see. Why was it so dark? And those...those visions. Did she have visions? What was her name? Did she have a name? Why was she here? She was hungry. She was tired. But she had to keep moving. Why? Why? There was an island... _NO!_ Keep moving. Why? She forgot. What was her name? What was that voice? It sounded like...

_Mother..._

* * *

_Lifesaver_

Ginny collapsed on the pillows, thanking Dorothea silently for them once again. The fifth Weave she had made that week. What was it? Saturday? Yes, Saturday sounded right. Her fifth Weave. This one would be used to save her mother. No loose ends, no free threads, no runs, no mistakes.

All she needed now was a light. She couldn't find her mother without a light. She pursed her lips and stared up at the ceiling. It was raining lightly, but the rain never hit under five meters from the ground. It just sort of stopped in mid-air.

Ginny sniffed and closed her eyes. A light. Where was she going to find a lantern? There had to be something. If there was one thing Ginny had learned in her life, there was always a way of doing anything. All you had to do was find the right way. She smiled wanly when she remembered her mother had told her that.

And it hit her. A light? What about her crystal? It was, after all, a metaphysical crystal. She couldn't really take it out of her mind, but she could take it to the Remnants. She remembered Dorothea saying when she Weaved her dreams under her crystal's light, it would be stronger and would carry her psychic scent better. Ginny bit her lip. Would her mother remember her psychic scent? She had been giving Ginny dreams for years, protective ones too. She would have to be familiar with it. She would have to be familiar to all her family's.

Ginny pondered. What if she could Weave her whole family's psychic scent into the Artificial Dream? It shouldn't be that hard. All she would have to do was capture one or two of their dreams. All it would take was time. She didn't have a lot of it, but she had enough. She had just enough.

Ginny nodded and decided to get a bit of food before she continued.

Stalking quietly to the kitchen, she heard voices, low voices. She smiled when she recognized them as Dorothea's and Moody's. She knew there was something there, that there always had been. At first, she had thought they were old enemies. But upon closer inspection, she found they were old lovers. Something had happened between the two early in the week that had changed all that. Ginny sighed. They deserved their happiness.

She asked a house-elf to get her something, instead of interrupting Dorothea and Moody. She didn't want to make them uncomfortable. Walking back to the library with her tray full of food and snacks, she began trying to contact her bothers and father. She would have to make sure they were asleep when she tried to capture one of their dreams. It was easier on the "victim" if they were asleep.

Ginny shivered when she entered the library and pumped the fire up with some of her Elemental power. It wasn't nearly as taxing to do that as it once was. Dorothea was right. Practice, practice, practice. She set the food down on the table and ate one of the little sandwiches. It was pretty good. When she had eaten her fill, she settled back down on the pillows and willed herself down to her dream state level.

Finding her brothers and father wouldn't be too hard. She had known them, so recognizing their psychic scent would be easier than trying to find, say, the Queen of England's. Directing herself onto the right dream pattern, she swallowed and let her mind wander.

She found Charlie first. His dreams always were louder for her. It was probably because she knew him best. He was asleep, his mind resting but, as always, on dragons. His was a happy dream. The newest dragon admission was a family of docile Common Welsh Greens. The multi-toned, melodious roar echoed in his dream, and speckled green eggs were focused on. Ginny smiled at her simple brother and gently Un-Wove the dream, spinning the thread into an organized ball and placing a soothing mental kiss on him before leaving.

The next brother she found was Ron. She immediately left when she found he was still awake. And not alone. And quite busy with Hermione.

Ginny was able to collect the dreams from the rest of her brothers with no problems...or inconveniences. Bill, naturally, was dreaming about treasure. Fred and George were actually sharing frighteningly similar dreams about laughter and jokes and, for some reason, Angelina Johnson. Percy was a father in his dream, married to a very pregnant Penelope with two or three little redheaded, blue-eyed Weasleys running about. She was able to capture one of Ron's dreams when it was safe to and found it very similar to Percy's, except Hermione was very pregnant and there were closer to five or six little Weasleys.

A smile broke onto her face in response to her family's happy dreams. Only her father's bothered her. He was dreaming about her mother when they were younger. Her mother was about to go into labor...with Ginny. She looked like hell, but Ginny couldn't figure out what was being said. It was a very confusing dream. She collected it anyway and Un-Wove it gently. All she needed was a happy memory of her own, and she would have all the thread she needed.

This made Ginny's smile falter. A happy memory? Her happy memories circled around her and Draco. She had other memories, but they just weren't strong enough. She needed her thread to be the strongest, the most sturdy. She was going to save her mother; her brothers and father were just back-up. Ginny bit her lip and used a Draco memory anyway. It would have to do. It was a very strong one, the memory of meeting him for the first time. If her mother questioned her about it, at least she would understand.

Sighing and gathering the different threads, Ginny set out to work, Weaving a strong anchor down to the Remnants.

She didn't know how long she worked, nor how many meals she missed. All she knew was the tight Weave on her Loom, threads sparkling under her black crystal. It was strong and thick, radiant with power and shining with dream and memory. This would take her to where she needed to go; this would save her mother.

When Ginny opened her eyes, it was very dark, and only a few candles lit the otherwise shadowed library. Dorothea had left her a note and some food. Ginny read it, appreciating the older woman's concern, and silently thanked her for the food.

Ginny yawned, stretching her arms over her head as she made her way slowly to her room. The dark halls seemed to go on and on. But finally she reached her room and practically passed out on her bed. She turned the fire hotter and turned off the candles with her power then immediately went to sleep.

* * *

_Memoirs of the Midnight Man, Part I_

"Has he found her?"

The midnight man asked it, his voice low and dangerous. The moon didn't shine; the stars didn't twinkle. If a Muggle had seen it, they would have thought the scene a devilry and ran. But then, there were no more Muggles in that part of the country. The men in black had killed every one of them.

The pale man with long, blonde hair and a silky demeanor slipped lightly to his knees and simpered before the taller, darker figure. "No, Master. But he reports he has narrowed down her age and year, possibly house."

"Good," the dark man returned. "Very good. And does he know when he will find her, Lucius? I am getting impatient."

"He says he is close, Master," the Death Eater whispered. "He says once he gets back to school, he can find her more quickly."

"Yes," the master said speculatively. "We did take him from his task. I think I shall meet him, Lucius."

"Yes, Master. When?"

The dark man considered this. "You and he will meet me in Copenhagen in three weeks. I will give you directions from there."

"Thank you, Master," the simpering man replied.

"Good. Remember what the punishment for failure is, Lucius. Remember..."

The dark man Apparated, and the other sighed, standing and brushing off his black robe. He sneered and Apparated too. But behind them, hidden by bushes and charms but not by Dream Sight, was a set of silver eyes. A flash of silver and a whispering of words and the eyes were gone.

* * *

_Pathos_

Ginny's eyes opened with effort. She was still dead tired. Having put most of her energy into the Weave, she had right to be. But still, with all her aching bones, she pushed herself out of bed and into a warm shower. Beginning to wake, she washed the soreness from her muscles with a soap Dorothea had given her. It relaxed her.

After she got dressed and ate a huge breakfast, she made her way into the library. Dorothea was sitting there patiently, reading something Ginny honestly didn't care about. Dorothea looked at her mildly, a small smile on her lips.

"Have you made it, Ginevra?"

"Yes." Ginny opened her mind enough for Dorothea to see her Weave.

After a moment, Dorothea's eyes opened, and she looked at Ginny confidently. "You are ready?"

"Yes."

"And you know the way?"

"Yes."

There was a slight pause before Dorothea spoke. "Good. I will be waiting here for you, Ginevra."

Ginny nodded. She sank down on the pillows and took a deep breath.

* * *

_Questioning the High Priestess, Part I_

"Will she make it, Thea?"

A sigh. "She damn well better, Alastor. She has to go to school tomorrow."

A snort came in response.

* * *

_Life Guard_

Diving into her own mind, she stopped briefly to collect her crystal lantern and connect herself with her own communal dream. Lowering herself to the level of the Remnants was easy this time, having learned the way earlier in the week. It was still dark and endless, but this time, with her lantern and collective dream, it wasn't so unbearable.

Not knowing where to begin, Ginny lit her lantern brighter and moved, taking in the endlessness of the Remnants. It could drive anyone insane. Just looking at the place made her shiver. She could see parts of Broken Dreams, traps waiting for her if she got too close. She hoped her mother hadn't got caught in one.

_Mother! Molly Weasley! Molly Prewett! _

Ginny called out into the abyss, hoping to bring her mother close enough to see with her lantern. Maybe her mother would come to the light. She jacked the light of her crystal up as bright as it could go, watching the black-tinted light swarm the darkness. It was an odd sensation, black light. There was something wrong about it, but also something powerful.

_It's me, Ginny! Your daughter! Mother! Come to me! _

Ginny felt a brief touch of a conscious on hers, and a sense of elation washed over her. It was her mother; she could recognize that psychic scent from anywhere. She shone her lantern around and looked about her. Obviously, Ginny's mother was being cautious. Ginny sighed, pulling on the dream she brought with her.

_I have something, Mother. It will save you. Come here, Mother! It's me, Ginny! _

_Ginny? Is that you? Is that really you? I remember you... _

Ginny sighed in relief. _ Yes, it's me, Mother. Come on now, we have to leave. _

_Leave here? _

_Yes! _

_Where is here? _

Ginny bit her lip. Her mother was slipping. The Weave, she needed to wrap her mother in the collective dreams and memories of her family.

_The Remnants, Mother. Now, come here; I'm sure you're cold. I have a nice, warm blanket for you. _

_Oh, how thoughtful of you, Ginny. _

Ginny wrapped her mother in the Weave and began pulling, pulling her back to the surface. It was a heavy load and was getting heavier and heavier with each memory her mother retrieved.

_Almost there, Mother. _

_Yes, Ginny, you must fight now. I believe in you. _

Ginny struggled against the current of the Remnants. They were trying to pull her down, their cold fingers slipping against her conscious, trying to find a way in. She beat them off, taking hold of her mother and the Weave. She strained against the pressure, breathing hard as she fought.

A strong burst of light. She was free! The light enveloped her, and she found herself breathing hard on the ground, Dorothea kneeling down next to her, looking hopeful. Ginny smiled tiredly. She'd won.

"Ginevra," Dorothea said softly. "Sleep now, Ginevra. Sleep. Tomorrow you can go back to school."

Ginny nodded tiredly. Only the sun shining high through the window told her how long she'd been under. It felt like seconds, maybe minutes. She must have been under for a day.

A mind touched hers lightly, and she sighed.

_Mother_... she sent out into the dark.

She closed her eyes and fell asleep when the voice responded.

_Ginny...thank you, dear. Thank you._

* * *

_Questioning the High Priestess, Part II_

"Her mother?"

"She is well, Alastor. I just received the news from Jeanette."

"Nice of her to take care of Molly all this time."

"Yes. Yes, it was."

* * *

_Justify Killing to the Victim_

Draco breathed hard, leaning against a tree. He waited a while, catching his breath under the heavy foliage of the Black Forest. He couldn't believe how much resistance the German Aurors had put up. It was almost as though they had been waiting for the Death Eaters. Part of Draco wanted to celebrate the fact, but the other part just wanted to stay alive.

He'd made his first kill that night. He'd killed a German Auror. It wasn't an accident. It wasn't even self defense. The wizard wasn't half of his talent; he knew this. But he had been attacking a younger Death Eater, a person Draco knew from school. He hadn't wanted the German to die, but he hadn't wanted Warrington to die either.

So when he was told to scatter, he did just that. He dove into the Black Forest , and after twenty minutes of running, he'd come to a stop here. The little stream supplied him with some water, but every inch of him wanted to run and run until he found Snape or Dumbledore or even Ginny and give up.

But no.

He needed to get the information. He needed to earn his way to the headmaster's good will. He needed to get enough evidence to put his father and his father's friends behind bars. Preferably in Azkaban where they could rot until they died. He would prove himself to Ginny and Dumbledore and everyone. Seeing the terror had only made him want an end to it faster. It had only made him loathe his father fiercer. It had only made him want to kill his father just that much more.

He looked up at the black sky. Always at night. They always attacked at night. They called the night their protector and claimed it would hide them from their enemies. Thus the black robes. The silver masks Draco hadn't figured out yet.

He snorted and took another drink from the small stream, bathing his face and the back of his neck. How did Snape justify killing? Surely the older man did it. Surely he had needed to do it to prove his "loyalty." He wished Snape was there; at least then he wouldn't be quite so alone.

Above the trees, he could see the faintest green smoke. It was drifting over the town they had just destroyed. The skull and snake rose higher over the trees, and it made Draco want to puke. Someday that mark would never rise again. Draco only hoped he would be part of its downfall.

He straightened his robes and brought his wand to attention. Then he Disapparated to the safe spot, a grove of trees with dark powers. Voldemort had stationed himself there, hoping the trees masked his own dark powers. The trees were powerful, and they served their purpose. But Draco had no intention of seeing Voldemort, not until he absolutely had to.

He stalked off to a distant hill and waited for his father, his thoughts on Ginny the whole time.


	9. Aggressive Suspicions

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER NINE:**

**Aggressive Suspicions**

* * *

_To Walk in a Dream_

The letter dropped from her hand.

Gone.

Draco was gone. Taken from her for gods knew what, going gods knew where, with gods knew who. She knew his father had to have something to do with it. He had always been a slippery little worm. And now he had taken Draco "abroad." Ginny wasn't naïve; she knew Lucius Malfoy was going to try and turn his son into an image of him. Ginny wasn't going to let that happen, not ever.

Ginny Summoned the letter to her and slipped from the Tower, knowing she wouldn't enter it again until Draco was back. It was their place. The Tower would always be their place. She sighed, walking through the twisted passages and into her room. Deserted as usual, she paced the floor, trying to decide what to do. Would Dumbledore tell her? Dumbledore knew everything, so surely he knew where Draco was. He was only one person.

The wind whipped in her room, and she closed her window before slipping into her night clothes. How was she ever going to find him? His psychic scent was easy enough to find, but she couldn't use it. If he was truly with Voldemort, then it wouldn't be safe or prudent to contact him like that. Or even at all. Ginny bit her lip, combing her hair as she stared off into space.

Would Voldemort really be able to detect her if she sent a dream to Draco? Dorothea had said people who weren't in tune to their psychic scent couldn't detect it without very complex charms. Most people didn't even know about it; much less have the ability to construct the charms needed to discover it. So perhaps it would be safe to send a dream to Draco, just a short one to make sure he was all right.

Ginny turned off the candles with a flick of her hand and crawled into bed, closing her eyes and focusing. She drifted down to her dream state and let out a sigh of relief when the dream traffic in her head slowed and she was able to pick out Draco's. His was very distinctive to her, musky and sweet, almost chilly, but caressing. There was something more to his scent; it was residue of Elemental power from his soul.

She hitched a ride on his mind pattern and began work at her Loom. All she had to do was Weave herself in his dream, nothing terribly difficult. She stepped into his dream cautiously. It was dark and not very inviting. Draco sat alone over a body, a dead body which upon closer inspection Ginny found was his father's.

"I may be stupid, Lucius, but I will never be stupid for you again," he said in a harsh voice, spitting on his father's corpse. Ginny could tell this was a fantasy dream. While it disturbed her, it was in Draco's character to be violent to his father. And after what Ginny had found out about Malfoy, there was good reason he should be.

"Draco," Ginny said soothingly.

He turned to her quickly, his wand at ready. His eyes widened, and he thrust his wand in his pocket. "Ginny," he whispered, taking a step towards her. "Is this a dream, Ginny?"

Ginny nodded. "Yes. I found your letter, Draco."

He stiffened and looked over his shoulder. "I wish you didn't have to see that, Ginny."

Ginny smiled. "We don't have to be here." She closed her eyes, envisioning Inverted Tower and letting it settle over both of their minds. When she opened them again, she saw Draco looking appreciatively at her.

"That's handy," he whispered, scooping her up in his arms and crushing her against him. "I miss you already, Ginny," he said softly into her hair. "I can barely stand it, Gin."

"I know," Ginny said softly, running her fingers up and down Draco's back, doing her best to soothe him. He exhaled deeply and bent down to kiss her neck, inhaling into her hair. "I know," Ginny repeated tenderly.

"You can't stay, you know," Draco said after a moment. "And I don't think it would be a good idea if you came back. I don't know how detectable this talent of yours is. But since he's looking – he's looking for anything out of the ordinary; you probably shouldn't come back."

Ginny nodded and looked into his eyes. "You're coming back, aren't you?"

"Yes," Draco said, brushing a hair away from her face.

She smiled at him. It was a sad smile, a smile of longing. So Draco did the only thing he could. He kissed her. It felt real, her velvety tongue dancing gracefully with his, an intricate ballet, as she sighed, her body molding to his. She tasted like warm honey, her sneaky little tongue darting in his mouth, licking his pallet before retreating and letting him kiss down her jaw to her ear.

Kissing her lobe playfully, he whispered in a husky voice, "I'll miss you."

"Then I'll have to make it up to you when you get back," she said in a passion-filled voice.

They shared a silence, and Draco decided he would go for it. "I love you, Ginny."

She smiled at him in a way that made his heart want to break. It was the smile of a woman who knew she wasn't going to see her love for a long, long while. "I love you, too, Draco."

He smiled, the dream fading before him. She became less tangible, less real, until all that was left was the sweet touch of her presence and the foggy reminder of a kiss.

* * *

_The Right Place at the Right Time_

Percy Weasley frowned. This was not working. Not only was he stuck late at the office again (something he didn't necessarily mind), but he was trapped in a very small space. So granted, he wasn't supposed to be in that part of the building, but after all he'd heard, after all he'd seen, the ends were definitely justifying the means at this point. He felt the intense urge to burst out of the damnable broom cupboard, Stupefy both the intruders, and haul them in front of a group of rather testy Dementors after a severe bout of questioning.

But his good sense told him that was the fastest and most proficient way of getting himself killed.

If only he had put a rein on his curiosity! Who truly cared about the Ministry picnic activities next week? But no! He had got himself all hot and bothered about it (lack of organization developed his twitch further) and went down to the Department of Mysteries to find out. Who better to know what the Ministry picnic activities were?

He had heard the two people enter the front room and, to save himself the embarrassment, had hidden in the broom cupboard. It stank in there and was rather filthy. He didn't particularly want to bring disgrace to himself when he was flipping through the director of the Department of Mysteries' folders...so he went into a broom cupboard. Brilliant. If they found him in there...

"These are some pretty harsh accusations, Charlotte," a thick, masculine voice said. Percy didn't recognize it, but then, it was probably an Unspeakable. No one knew who Unspeakables were. You could be an Unspeakable without knowing it yourself until someone decided to tell you.

"I realize that, Duncan," Charlotte Teasdale, the director of the Department of Mysteries, said flatly. Percy, in fulfilling his duties as head of International Magical Cooperation two years ago, had met her and found her quite charming, if not downright beautiful. She had short cropped brown hair and brown, doe-like eyes that hid their true intentions well. She was smart and, though she barely looked it, near forty. She was a good woman that had served the Department of Mysteries for the last ten years.

"I just don't think letting these trespasses go by any longer is helping. The Aurors know of these people, have had enough evidence to put them in Azkaban for a very long time. It is time to catch the traitors, Duncan."

Percy heard the man inhale deeply. But before he could hear anything else, the cupboard door opened the slightest, a crack forming wide enough for him to see through.

"What was that?" Duncan asked harshly.

"Meow! Meow!"

Percy could have kissed that cat. Except he was allergic.

"Oh, it's just Daphne, my familiar," Charlotte said pleasantly. The large, midnight colored cat mewed again and jumped onto the desk. Its green eyes caught his, and he seemed to smile.

Percy didn't like that cat in the slightest.

The man, Duncan, snorted. "As I was saying. Perhaps a few more months. If you want to purge the traitors in the Ministry, you are going to need a lot of support, definitely from the Minister and possibly the Order of the Phoenix."

"I know all that," Charlotte said with a sigh. "That is why I've taken the liberty of making a list of traitors and people I think can help us in catching them. I've keyed it to answer to Albus, Alastor, and you, Duncan. I will need your help, too."

Percy saw a small smile that he didn't trust cover the man's face. His eyes were a shade too black, and his graying hair betrayed his age. He must have been older than fifty, but he had retained his body, and his wide shoulders and sharp chin had stayed youthful.

"A list," Duncan said lightly. "Really. And it has all the names of the people you suspect on there?"

"Yes," Charlotte said suspiciously. "Why?"

Duncan snorted. "Only this," he said, whipping out his wand and pointing it at Charlotte.

She jumped from her seat in fright, her cat hissing angrily. She screamed, but it was silenced by the look in Duncan 's eye. "What are you doing, Duncan?"

"What I should have done years ago, Charlotte," he answered slowly. "Now sit and tell me how to open the letter. I need those names."

Charlotte sat but looked at Duncan defiantly. "I should have known, Duncan. Why else would the former head of the department want so desperately to suddenly be friends with me? We hated each other in the programs. Barely tolerated each other's presence at the meetings."

"Too bad you were too stupid to figure it out sooner, Charlotte," Duncan cooed. "You might have saved a lot of lives."

"Why?" Charlotte hissed. "Why did you betray us? Why, Duncan?"

Duncan snorted. "Why else, Charlotte? The love of a woman is a powerful thing, and I'm in love with a very powerful woman."

"Not me, I hope," Charlotte snorted.

"No," Duncan said softly, a little too softly. "Not you, my darling Charlotte. A woman far more powerful than you."

"Who?" Charlotte asked.

"Well," Duncan said smoothly, "it's the woman you've all been looking for since she was practically born. You remember the Meeting fifteen years ago. You remember the child born in it. The one that is wiped from all records. The one that is protected by more charms and spells than the Minister and his family put together. The one Dumbledore won't disclose. The one that has more power than all of us put together."

Charlotte 's eyes widened. "But she's barely a girl! You bastard! You're not in love! You want her for your experiments! You slime!"

"_NO! I DO LOVE HER_!" he bellowed, his wand shaking as he pointed it at her. "The list, please, Ms. Teasdale."

"You're twisted, Welsh," Charlotte spat. "You won't get this unless it's over my dead body."

An evil grin lit Duncan Welsh's face. "Well, Charlotte, if you insist."

Percy decided he had enough proof. He could take this man down and be all the better for it. One simple spell and the day would be saved.

"_AVADA _–"

"_STUPEFY_!" Percy bellowed, flying from the closed door and releasing his spell on Welsh.

The closet door practically flew off its hinges, and the man, tall and dark, hit the floor hard, his wand falling from his hand. Charlotte screamed, and her hand went to her mouth. Percy set his face in a mask of bravery, displaying more than he felt of his courage.

"Weasley! What are you doing here?" Charlotte said in a harsh whisper.

"No time for explanations now, Ms. Teasdale," Percy said, giving her a hand up.

She shook with fright and circled her desk, kicking Welsh with her shoe before looking up at Percy. "I don't care why you were there, Weasley; you're getting a promotion, be sure of that. Thank you. Oh gods, thank you."

Percy nodded, feeling rather proud of himself. He dusted off his robes, trying to be courteous. That was until she heard Charlotte scream again. Welsh had her around the neck, his wand in his hand and his other squeezing Charlotte 's neck.

"I don't care who you are," Welsh said, glaring and looking slightly intimidated. "But if you come one step closer, I'll kill her."

"You listen here," Percy said bravely. "I heard everything, so if you're going to kill her, you're going to have to go through me. Run and I won't follow. But if you kill her, I will kill you. Just leave Ms. Teasdale."

The older man snorted. "_Accio_ list!" he said sharply. The piece of paper flew to his hand, though he looked nervously at Percy's raised wand. "I think I'll take you up on that one, sonny."

The he threw Charlotte at Percy. She screamed, and Welsh bolted. Percy did the only thing he could; he Summoned the list from the fleeing man's back pocket with one hand and caught the director of the Department of Ministries with the other. She fell atop him, knocking the air out of his lungs.

Percy helped her up, jumping to the door and looking down the hallways. When there was no sight of Welsh, he turned to Charlotte and nodded at her.

"Second time today, Weasley," she said primly, straightening her hair. "I must have some angel looking over me."

"Yes," Percy said slowly. "Yes, you must."

* * *

_Non-Biblical Revelationsº_

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about it, Ginevra?"

"No!" she sobbed, throwing her arms around Blaise's neck and crying harder.

She heard Blaise's sigh of impatience, though he patted her back anyway and did his best to calm her. It only served to make her cry more and Blaise to cast a distressed look at Colin and Dean. They just shrugged and gave him sympathetic looks. So he sighed again and said, "Look, Ginevra, I'm sure he can't be that great of a bloke."

Wrong thing to say as Ginny let out a high-pitched sob and wept on Blaise's shoulder. She had been like that ever since she walked into the classroom that Saturday morning, the last Saturday before summer holiday. Blaise had been writing poetry, and Dean and Colin were comparing each other's works. In she walked with her face red and her eyes watering. She'd thrown herself at the nearest warm body, who just so happened to be Blaise, and began to sob uncontrollably.

"Do either of you know exactly what is going on?" Blaise hissed in question.

"Um, that boy she met over holiday," Colin said cautiously. "I'm taking it they didn't work out."

"No!" Ginny sobbed, squeezing Blaise so hard he thought he would choke. "He – he – he – _aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!_"

Blaise did his best to soothe her again, casting a nasty look at Colin, who raised his eyebrows and looked away. He muttered something like, "that time of the month again," and Dean nodded. Blaise snorted at his good luck (or lack thereof) and decided to wait out the storm. He was going to need a new silk shirt though.

Soon enough, Ginny calmed down, and she let go of Blaise. He offered her a handkerchief, and she smiled appreciatively. After she had calmed some more and Blaise deemed it safe enough to start questioning her, he said, "So do you want to talk about it, Ginevra?"

She shook her head.

"Come on," Blaise encouraged. "You cry all over me and expect me to take it without explanation? You must be some kind of crazy. Besides, it'll make you feel better."

"Yeah, Gin," Colin said softly, sitting next to her on the other side of the couch and putting an arm on her shoulder.

"We're good listeners," Dean said comfortingly, sitting next to Blaise.

"Oh, sure," Blaise said sarcastically. "Now you can listen. And when she was staining my new shirt with her tears, where were you then?"

Ginny laughed a little and said, "All right, but you can't tell anyone. You can't tell my brother especially. Or Harry. Or Hermione. Or anyone."

"You have our word, Gin," Colin said softly. "We won't tell them."

Ginny waited for Blaise and Dean to nod and licked her lips after they did. "Well, you know that boy I've been seeing?"

"The one you won't tell us anything about?" Dean said suggestively. "Mr. E. Mann?"

Ginny smiled. "That's the one. He's...he's kind of in a lot of danger. His father's got him up to the ears in it."

"He's not some sort of convict, is he, Ginevra?" Blaise said harshly. "You haven't even told us how old he is, much less who he is."

Ginny bit her lip and looked at each of them. "You all swear not to tell..." she warned. When no one disagreed, she sighed and said, "It's Draco – Draco Malfoy."

A chain reaction occurred. First, Blaise dropped his jaw; then Colin dropped his jaw, and his eyes got really big; then Dean dropped his jaw, and his eyes got really big, and he made slightly strangled noises. And then a storm of voices.

"You fell in love with Malfoy?"

"Do you have any idea what sort of trouble he is?"

"Your brother is going to beat him into next week!"

"Are you insane?"

"Gin, think about this!"

"This is a joke, right?"

"He's a vicious monster, Gin! You can't love him!"

And after the voices fell, Ginny was sitting calmly between the three unbelieving boys, her face sad and her hands folded in her lap. She bit her lip, waiting for them to finish. When they did, she sighed and looked at them sadly.

"See," she said, "he warned me you would probably react like this."

"Because he's trying to get in your pants," Blaise snorted. "Take it from someone who knows."

Ginny raised an eyebrow at him.

"Okay, so he never tried to get in my pants, but I can fantasize," Blaise mumbled. "But really, you can't love him."

"Why?" Ginny asked sensibly.

"Because he probably doesn't love you back," Colin said. "Ginny, all he's ever done is make you feel wretched. All he's ever done is make trouble for your family and friends. You can't really believe he loves you."

Ginny sighed and stood. "Look, he's different when he's around me. He's decent, and we can talk. He hasn't once tried to 'get in my pants,' and he's never gone any farther than kissing me. He's never even asked."

"Really," Blaise said, his interest sparked. "How does he kiss?"

Ginny shivered, closing her eyes. "You have no idea, Blaise."

"I don't want to hear this," Colin said pointedly. "But, Gin, he's no good. Take it from a quote, unquote 'Mudblood,' he's no fun."

"Well, I think it's great," Dean said.

"You do?" Ginny said, turning to him in disbelief.

"You do?" Colin and Blaise said at the same time, looking at him as if he were crazy.

"I do," Dean repeated. "I mean, if Ginny really did melt his heart, as it were, that's a good thing. I believe he can change, and he may have. I don't know if any of you noticed, but none of the insults were stinging before he left, right before break. It was like he didn't really want to be doing it."

Ginny could see Colin and Blaise thinking. She hoped and prayed they saw through Draco's front. She needed friends, especially over the summer. She wanted Blaise and Dean and Colin to visit her and let it be like the old times.

"I think I see it," Colin said after a moment. "He never quite looked at me the way he used to. And when he'd make fun of Gryffindor, it wasn't necessarily hurtful, more of the same old stuff."

"Yeah, well he hates me anyway," Blaise said, "so I don't think I'd notice anything."

Ginny bit her lip. "No, he doesn't like you very much," she conceded. "But he just thinks you're annoying; he doesn't hate you."

Blaise snorted and rolled his eyes. "Glorious."

There was a brief silence.

"You do know where he went, Ginevra, don't you?" Blaise said slowly, as though debating whether or not to tell her something.

Ginny shook her head.

Blaise let out a labored sigh and said, "His father is training him, Ginevra. Training him to be a Death Eater. It's a nasty little fact about Slytherin; basically everyone grows up to be a Death Eater. Every boy is trained for a few months in the noble art of Death Eating, and then they grow up to be noble, little Death Eaters. It is just how it is."

"Even you?" Dean said stiffly.

Blaise snorted. "As if. I own the Floo Network. I don't need to be a Death Eater to be rich _or _powerful. Besides, my family has never been Death Eaters for three good reasons. _One,_ we're too public. _Two_, we don't like the Malfoys. And _three,_ we don't like to kill; it cuts down on profit. You can't sell Floo to dead bodies. _Believe me,_ we've tried."

"I knew I was your friend for some reason, Blaise," Ginny said with a smile.

Blaise stiffened. "But that doesn't change the fact that for nearly six years of his life, Draco Malfoy has been the poster child for Death Eater and anti-Muggle propaganda. Colin had it right, Ginevra; he's not a very good person."

Ginny clenched her teeth. "I wish you all would stop saying that," she said angrily. "You barely know him. Malfoy is who Hogwarts sees, Draco is who I see. He's different, and it's hard for him to show everyone Draco because of his father. I know if he could, he would."

They were quiet for a while. Then Blaise sighed and said, "Look, Ginevra, I believe you. If you say he's changed, he's changed. But watch your back. Not just because of him. Maybe not because of him at all. But because of his family and 'friends.' They catch word he's with you, a Muggle and Mudblood – no offence, Colin – sympathizer, they're going to want to kill you. And if they want to kill you, consider yourself dead. You and your family."

Ginny smiled. "Thanks, Blaise. You don't know what it means to know that you believe me. All of you. But you can't tell anyone, especially not my brother. He'd go on a killing rampage."

"And kill the first person he sees, likely to be the person who tells him," Dean finished. "We're not telling anyone. I, personally, would like to rest face up in a marked grave."

Ginny giggled a little. "Thanks you all, really."

"Anything for you, Gin," Colin said, a smile on his boyish face. "Now I'm hungry; let's say we head down for lunch."

The suggestion met with general approval.

* * *

_An Odd Kind of Gathering_

The train ride home was loud and jarring. Plans were set for Blaise, Colin, and Dean to visit in July, near the time Hermione was coming to the Burrow. Harry was going to stay most of the summer; after all the attacks, Dumbledore had said he would be much safer with Ginny's parents than his Muggle aunt and uncle. Harry didn't seem to have any qualms with the logic.

At first it was awkward for Blaise on the ride home. Ginny knew he'd never had friends like Dean and Colin and her, but he'd adjusted to them fine. Harry, Hermione, and Ron were a different story. Ron was the biggest problem. He didn't seem to get that neither Blaise nor Dean nor Colin wanted to take advantage of Ginny, something he was obviously torn up about. Hermione caught onto the fact that Dean and Blaise were gay rather quickly and got the message that Colin only liked Ginny as a friend. Harry seemed to take it cautiously, not judging, but not being overly friendly either.

Ginny watched the interaction between her friends and her brother's friends, hoping at least an uneasy alliance would be formed. To the trio, Colin had always been seen as the boy Ginny would probably marry, Dean was just another boy in their year, and Blaise was an arrogant Slytherin prick. But everyone was making an effort, and this made Ginny very happy.

"Check," Blaise drawled.

"Damn!" Ron said sharply. He looked at the board and commanded his knight down and to the left three squares. "Damn," he repeated, scratching his head.

Blaise merely smirked, moved a rook, and said, "Check."

"Bloody hell!" Ron said, pondering his next move.

"Ron," Hermione said warningly, giving him a look and then turning back to Ginny. "Sometimes..."

"You have no idea, Hermione," Ginny said, laughing. "He's worse than Bill and Charlie put together. He's even worse than the twins."

She heard Blaise snort and say something to the effect of, "It must run in the family."

Ron laughed, and Harry, Colin, and Dean, who were playing a friendly game of Exploding Snap, laughed too. Ginny just rolled her eyes and turned back to Hermione.

"What are you planning to do this summer?" Ginny asked, pretzeling her legs in front of her.

Hermione shrugged. "My parents are going to America for the summer on an orthodontics conference, so I'm staying with my cousin, Nanette, for the first month. Then I'm getting dumped at your house when she and her husband leave for Moscow. They're painters and were hired for something or other."

"Do they know you're a witch?" Ginny asked, taking a bite of her sandwich and looking at Hermione thoughtfully. She had never really talked to Hermione before. Sure, they'd talked, but not really. She found she didn't know much about the real Hermione, only the one she showed everyone else, the slightly stuck-up, yet loyal and smart friend of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.

Hermione shook her head. "No, Mum and Dad aren't too keen on telling anyone either. They love and support me and everything, but you know, most Muggles have no idea there are witches and wizards. I don't think my family could handle it, to tell you the truth."

Ginny grinned. "Have you at least told your parents about your plans?"

"Plans?" Hermione asked, looking confused. Ginny glanced at Ron; Hermione's mouth formed an "O," and her eyes widened. "Oh, you mean our plans!"

Ginny nodded, and Hermione blushed.

"Well, I wasn't going to tell them until after I leave school. They don't know the pace of the wizarding world and all. I mean, they got married when they were twenty-five and didn't have me until my mum was twenty-eight. Most wizarding couples have three or four kids by then."

"Too true," Ginny muttered, thinking about her parents. Her mother had barely waited until her first month out of school to get pregnant with Bill. She wasn't even fifty, and she had seven nearly full-grown children.

It was a pleasant ride back, though parting would be short-lived as Colin, Dean, and Blaise would be visiting in less than a month, as well as Hermione. Ginny said goodbye all the same, saying hello to the Burrow and only three months until she could see Draco again. She knew it would be worth the wait.

* * *

_Not-So Parenthetical Documentation_

Draco looked around him casually. The gesture was well documented by the people around him but dismissed as the nervous action of a boy about to become a man by seeing Voldemort for the first time. Draco knew it was taken note of by his elders and ignored it, another fact documented by the people around him. But what they didn't catch about that gesture, something Draco was becoming increasingly good at, was the fact that he had sighed. And within that sigh was a word.

"Listen."

Another casual sweep of the crowd and sigh earned him another opportunity.

"Voldemort."

The word stung on his tongue, but he ignored it. He had said the name before to Ginny; he wasn't scared. But he'd never said it to the – man, perhaps? No, thing's – face. He didn't plan on it, either. "Master" suited him just fine.

His father had dragged him from Sofia, Bulgaria, to here, Copenhagen. He'd suspected the reason, mainly because he'd recorded a conversation between his father and his father's Master earlier that month. Well, it could have been last month now. Keeping track of the days hadn't been on the top of his to-do list. Living and recording tied for first, with a close second of staying awake.

The potions were doing what they were supposed to. They made it possible for him to not sleep. They provided the right amount of chemicals and proteins to convince him and his body that he had been sleeping. The potion was complex, but he was good enough. He was just damned thankful Snape had shown it to him. He hadn't so much as closed his eyes for more than thirty seconds for nearly six weeks, maybe five, maybe four. He didn't really know. Not sleeping screwed with his sense of time. He had started after he was visited by Ginny. Mostly he wanted to stop the desire to see her. He needed to be firm right then.

"Draco," his father coolly drawled behind him.

"Lucius," Draco replied, a startling duplicate of his father's voice.

"Are you ready, son?" he asked casually.

"Yes."

"And you remember everything I told you?"

"Yes...Father," he ground out.

"Good," Malfoy said darkly. "Good. He will see us now. Come, Draco."

Draco nodded, pulling up his coat to hide the "Listen Lucius" he whispered lightly. Into the dark forest, he walked. Trying to remain calm, he thought about Ginny. A few more months of this. A few more months of killing, of death, of fear, and he would be done.

"Ah, Lucius, how nice of you to visit. Is this your son?"

It was a voice like cursed midnight. Too high to be called a man's, and too forced to be called human. Voldemort came into view, and Draco wanted to run. He was tall and spindly, pale as a ghost, maybe paler, and he had the creepiest, bloodshot, vertical eyes

Draco had ever seen.

"Yes, Master," Draco's father said, kneeling to the ground.

Draco suppressed a shiver and knelt, as well. He resented every second of it. Draco Malfoy bowed to no man. How could his father stand this? But Draco kept his eyes downcast, knowing that was the only way he could keep them firmly in their sockets.

"He is the one looking for my bride? He barely looks old enough to handle that sort of responsibility," Voldemort said slowly.

Draco sensed the danger in that voice, the words and the tone. He didn't like it, he didn't trust it, and he certainly didn't want to answer to it.

"Master," Lucius simpered. Hearing his father sound like that made Draco want to puke. "He is a very powerful tool to have at Hogwarts. He will be Head Boy next year, a position of considerable power over the student body. He is well on his way to being the strongest wizard in his class and is already in the top five of his academic class."

Voldemort considered this. "Yes, Head Boy is a great honor. But serving your master is a greater one. Tell me, boy, how close are you to finding the identity of your target?"

Draco stopped himself from gagging on the words, but he said them. "My Lord," he said, trying to imitate his father, "I have already begun work wooing the young woman. She will have my complete trust within a month of the beginning of school. The only problem is..."

Draco had been rehearsing this for a very long time, practicing what would gain Voldemort's attention most. Perhaps if he got distracted enough, he wouldn't ask for the name of the woman.

"A problem, my young Death Eater," Voldemort mused. "Hopefully it's not something...threatening."

"No, no, no, Master," Draco said quickly, knowing he had Voldemort's full attention now. "It's just her friends. They will cause problems for me."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "Who are these 'friends' of which you speak?"

"Well," Draco said slowly, trying to look uncomfortable. It wasn't that hard. "She is a friend of Potter. A rather good friend of his, and something of a love interest."

That got Voldemort right there. Jealousy was a powerful thing; Draco knew this and exploited it well. So was vengeance. Draco hoped to exploit both in the Dark Lord. Capturing his attention with the "problem" had only been the first step. After manipulating his insatiable hatred of Potter by saying he loved the same woman Voldemort was after, he could better control how the situation went. He would make it seem he was the only person who could capture Voldemort's bride.

It was a twisted web Draco weaved, a sick game where people were pawns and small events could later turn the direction of the win. But it was the only way now. Draco thanked Slytherin for all the years he learned the game. He considered himself the best and for good reason. And now, his greatest foe so far was eating up the game and not even knowing it.

"The love of Potter," Voldemort said slowly. "How..."

"Poetic, Master," Draco said cautiously.

And then something happened Draco did not expect. A smile formed on Voldemort's face, and it was the most evil and vile thing Draco had seen and probably would ever see. Not because the snake-like eyes held the malice of a thousand betrayed men, or because the snake-like tongue darted out between grayed teeth, but because the sound that came after it was the imitation of a laugh, and it seared his ears, and he wondered if he would ever forget.

"Yesss," he literally hissed. "Poetic."

Draco licked his lips. Now was the time for the finishing move, the one thing that would ensure the game never focused on Ginny again. "He will come after you; he talks about it all the time. He's obsessed with you, and he hates you for what you did to his parents and to Black. He makes it no secret that he thinks he has enough power to kill you."

"Is that so?" Voldemort said, his fingers folding over each other and his snake eyes looking mildly at Draco. "Well then, let him come. Lucius, young Draco, you are dismissed."

"Thank you, Master," Malfoy said in a slippery voice.

"Thank you, Master," Draco bit out, trying to sound as natural as he could. He backed away slowly, following his father's example. He backed up until he couldn't see Voldemort anymore, and then he turned and ground his teeth.

"We'll be Apparating to the house now, Draco," his father said quickly, raising his wand in the air.

And then they were at the house. His father threw off his cape, and it landed on a chair in the library. He immediately poured himself a glass of brandy, sitting down and relaxing in his chair.

"It's a dangerous game you play, son," he said slowly. Draco, who had watched this ritual before, said nothing but took off the heavy jacket and told an elf to take it to his room.

"Not for you, Lucius," he replied.

His father's eyes opened, and he shot from his seat, throwing the drink into the fire and raging, "You think Voldemort can't see thought the game!? You think he's oblivious to your cheap little amusement?! He is the Master for one reason; he's better at the game than all of us combined!"

"Jealousy blinds people, Lucius," Draco said softly. "And since when do you care? I could go off and get killed right now, and you wouldn't care."

"Foolish boy!" his father bellowed. "You are the heir! _My heir! _The only one I will ever have! If you don't inherit, the money goes to my cousins, or worse,_ Nacissa's_. If you don't inherit, my line is over; the Malfoys are over! Do you want to see that, boy?_ Do you?!_"

"Maybe I just want to see you dead," Draco grumbled. It wasn't the first time he'd said it to his father, but this time, something different happened.

"I said the same thing to my father, Draco. And do you know where that got me? It got me a hell of a lot of money. The old bastard is dead; I hope that when you say it, you do it. Because if you don't, I can haunt your step for a long, long time."

"Then I'll have to be careful," Draco said softly. "And you'll have to watch your back, Lucius."

His father snorted and said, "Thanks for the warning, boy. Now get out of my sight. Your mother is probably worried."

Draco glared at his father and stalked out of the room, closing the door none too lightly behind him. Things like "bastard" and "prick" escaped his mouth as he straightened himself and headed to his mother. It was night, very late, but he knew his mother would still be awake. If nothing else, she would be outside, communing with the Wind.

He didn't find her anywhere. He figured she was probably visiting her family on their vacation in France. Draco headed to his room, intent on having a natural night's sleep.

* * *

_Wizarding History 101_

Percy looked over the list again. So many names. So many familiar names. And all of them were traitors. Then on the right side were the most powerful witches and wizards in the world, all who were willing to help with the destruction of Voldemort. Percy smiled as he noticed himself on the very same list. But the names on the left side worried him.

Again, he raised his eyes to meet Charlotte Teasdale. She was looking at him speculatively. Her counterpart and assistant director of the British Auror Force sighed as Percy finally set down the list. He wasn't exactly sure why he was there, but three weeks after the incident with Duncan Welsh, he had got an invitation from Dante Browning, the assistant director of the British Auror Force.

So now, sitting on the opposite side of two of the ten most powerful people in the Ministry, he licked his lips nervously and said, "I'm confused."

Dante Browning nodded. "You see, you have access to most of the people on that list, Mr. Weasley. As director of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, you have the excuse to be basically anywhere at any time. Your leverage gives us a bit of an advantage over the opposition."

"And lest we forget your good instincts, Mr. Weasley," Charlotte said thoughtfully, "we have enough proof against Welsh because of you. One second sooner and he could have been set free; one second later and I could have been dead. And let's not forget your astonishing ability to hide in broom cupboards."

Percy smiled uncertainly. "This list...it's rather extensive. In fact, I'm not sure if I believe some of it. Sure, I believe Dolohov but Bernadette Jones? She's in the Auror Force; I've met her. She was two years ahead of me at Hogwarts and a good Ravenclaw. I really don't think –"

"Well, you better start, boy-o," Dante said harshly. "You're going to become the new social butterfly of the Ministry. I want you to be able to read between the lines of every sentence, look, and breath of every person in the Ministry. I want you to know the first, last, and middle name of everyone in their families, extended families, and their pets. You're a damn smart boy; that much we can see. But it's time for you to get out from behind the desk and start actively helping the cause."

"Yes, sir," Percy said, eyes brightening under the praise and pep talk. But then he frowned and looked at his superiors uncertainly. "Ms. Teasdale, I think it would be my civic duty to tell you something I heard over the grapevine, so to say."

Charlotte frowned in response and said, "Please, Mr. Weasley."

Percy took a breath and hit himself over the head mentally. This was going to sound stupid. But something in it sparked a wick in Percy's head, and he hadn't quite forgotten it. "Two years ago, when I was filling in for Mr. Crouch at the Tri-Wizard Tournament, I overheard some very interesting things."

Charlotte and Dante looked at him sharply.

"My younger brother, Ronald, happens to have made very good friends with Harry Potter. They are a sort of troublesome trio with their friend Hermione Granger."

"Oh, yes," Charlotte said appreciatively. "Hermione Granger has been watched for many years now, as have Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. They are on our radar."

"They are?" Percy asked doubtfully.

"Oh yes," Dante said. "Firstly, their friendship with Harry Potter, but they will be powerful in their own right. You see, the Weasleys, yourself included, have been watched for generations. Mostly because of your early and repetitive Showings, but also because of your mother, Molly Prewett."

"I think you should explain that before I go on," Percy said quietly.

Charlotte nodded. "Yes, I suppose my department has kept it secret long enough. The Ministry, as you know, has always been around, but it gained power in the thirties and forties because of three main people.

"After Albus Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald, he practically re-made the Ministry, gave it a whole lot of power and put a lot of good people in good positions. Like Alastor Moody—he regained his title of director of the British Auror Force two years ago because of Dumbledore's power over the older members of the Ministry. When Dumbledore first entered the Ministry, he had no part of it, but his wife, Evangeline Laferriere, was the Head of the Department of Mysteries.

"She was good friends with a woman named Eva Jones, your mother's mother, Mr. Weasley. She was also friends with a man named Percival Weasley, your father's father. Weasley's son and Jones' daughter got married, and you know the rest of that story. But because of Weasley and Jones' friendship with Evangeline Laferriere, and Laferriere's knowledge of the power in both families, Laferriere decided to place both families on the list of highly skilled and loyal families. After Laferriere died, the names stayed on the list, but the list was lost.

"I found it, along with an ancient list of people who were considered unsafe and disloyal by Laferriere. I added names myself with help of intelligence agents from the Auror Force and my own Unspeakables. Two of my best Unspeakables are your brothers actually, Fred and George.

"Unfortunately, Duncan Welsh wasn't on the list, which is exactly why we need you. We need you to find all the traitors, but publicly. Enough sneaking around; we think you are smart enough to decipher their intentions by talking to them. Use your intuition, your instincts, and your intellect."

Percy sighed. "Then my first instinct tells me Fudge isn't trustworthy."

Charlotte and Dante's mouths dropped.

"What did you say?" Dante asked quietly.

Percy shook his head. "He tried to separate the Ministry from Hogwarts, from Dumbledore. I heard a conversation with him and another person on this list, Edward Livingston, admitting that he told the Dementors to give the Kiss to Mr. Crouch's son so that he couldn't confess to anything."

Dante looked straight ahead, his teeth clenched and his fists balled. "Damnation! Moody was right! I've got to go, Charlotte."

Charlotte merely looked straight ahead of her, her eyes unfocused. "Damn," she whispered. "Damn it all to hell. You have no idea how many lives you just saved, do you, Weasley?"

"Not off the top of my head, no," Percy mumbled. "I knew I should have said something earlier..."

"Maybe not," Charlotte said. "Two years ago, no one might have believed you. I don't know if I would have. No, you did the right thing."

"So now what?" Percy said slowly.

Charlotte stiffened, straightened some papers and looked Percy in the eyes. "Now I give you a raise, a bit of a promotion, and you go home. You'll be going to a hell of a lot more Ministry functions. And I'll need you to visit Dumbledore for me. I can't go myself, too suspicious. But a student seeing his favorite headmaster... Yes, that will do nicely. Perhaps we can even get Alastor to accidentally drop in for tea. And you may just have a very handy piece of paper with you, say this one." She handed Percy the list from her desk, and Percy folded it into his coat pocket. "Watch yourself out there, Weasley. Play it smart, no matter what your brave, Gryffindoric gray matter might say."

Percy nodded and stood. "Thank you, Ms. Teasdale. I think I'll be seeing my old headmaster Sunday for afternoon tea."

Charlotte winked at him as he left. Percy steeled himself over. He was going to have a long talk with his mother in the morning; that was for sure.

Apparating to his London flat, Percy threw off his jacket, after carefully placing the list in his safe. Bill had designed the safe for him, so he knew no one would get that list. He flipped off his shoes and walked into the kitchen to find a large meal on the table and candles all around. It was dark without them, though it was only eight. He looked around suspiciously and almost jumped out of his pants when he felt a soft sensation on his neck, and he turned around to meet his wife, ginning appreciatively at him.

"Percy," she said in a low voice, her big, blue eyes smiling tenderly. "I've got some very good news for you."

"Oh," he said, looking around suspiciously. "Really, Penny?"

"You see," she said in a low, seductive voice, brushing her brown hair off her shoulder, "you've been working very hard, we've been working really hard, and finally, it's showing the fruits of our labor, so to speak."

Percy swallowed hard. His wife had that predatory gleam in her eye again. She might be a Ravenclaw, but she always knew what she wanted. And to this day, Percy couldn't figure out why it was him. She looked up at him, her arms resting on his shoulders as she backed him against the doorway of the kitchen and began kissing his neck.

"And I wanted to tell you over dinner, all civilized like," she mumbled into his ear. "But this is just so much more fun."

By now, after all the talk of traitors and suspicions, Percy was getting worried. What if his wife was a traitor? What if she knew about everything? About him scaring off Welsh and saving Charlotte. What if she was just biding her time?

"What?" Percy asked, grabbing for his wand ineffectually.

Then Penelope smiled a bright smile and squealed, "Percy! I'm pregnant! Isn't this glorious!?!"

She jumped up on him and wrapped her knees around his waist. "Isn't this wonderful!? I knew as soon as I woke up this morning I was! And I took the test, and it came out positive! You're going to be a father, Percy! A father!"

Percy sighed in relief, but only for a moment, because he was just so damn happy he was going to be a father. He knew there was a silly smile on his face, but he didn't care. He was going to be a father.

Penelope kissed him soundly on the lips and let herself down from his hips. When she looked at him, her eyes were full of tears. "This is the happiest day of my life, Percy."

Percy smiled and smoothed the tears from her face. "Mine too, Penny. Mine too."

* * *

ºRevelations – for the non-Judeo faithers out there, and not that I'm any kind of expert, John's Revelations are the last book/chapter/thingy in the New Testament


	10. Respectfully Untitled

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER TEN:**

**Respectfully Untitled**

* * *

_Violence Is Inherent in the System!º_

Smatterings of blood lined the wall, and Dean, Colin, Harry, and Hermione all rushed over to Ron to see if he was okay.

"Ron! Ron! Speak to me, Ron!" Hermione said desperately. "Come on!"

"I swear to _GOD, _Ronald Weasley! If you ever say anything like that ever again, I'm going to _KILL YOU! _ Do you hear me!?!" Ginny screamed, struggling to free herself of Blaise's tight grip.

"Jesus, Ginny!" Ron said, holding his nose as he stood.

Hermione "tsked" at him and healed his broken nose. "Well, you kind of did deserve it, Ron."

"Damn right you did!" Ginny screamed, trying again to release herself from Blaise. "Let me go! Blaise! If you don't let me go, I will scream!"

"Sorry, Ginevra," Blaise said calmly. "You and I are going to go on a nice walk up to your room."

"You wouldn't dare!" she whispered.

"Watch me," Blaise said, tossing her over his shoulder and trudging up the stairs, Colin and Dean in tow.

Ginny turned to her brother again and let out a string of curses in mixed Gaelic and English that made his face pale. "And you better hope when I get down here again, you're long gone! 'Cause if you're not, I'm really going to get angry! Do you hear me, Ronald Weasley!?"

"And so do the pigmies in the Philippines, Ginevra," Blaise said dully. "_Silencio_!"

Ginny didn't seem to notice this; her lips kept moving as she was brought up the stairs.

"Sorry, Ron," Colin said desperately. "We'll try to calm her down."

Then he dashed up the stairs after Ginny, Blaise, and Dean. Hermione shook her head and began cleaning the blood from the walls and Ron's shirt. She raised her eyebrows as Ron stared blankly at the blood he wiped from his nose.

"She broke my nose," he said in a small voice. He seemed too surprised to be angry at that point. "She broke my nose."

"Yes, she did, Ron," Hermione said casually.

"I think the question here is why," Harry said calmly. He was the only one who hadn't said anything. "One minute you were talking, and the next you were on the floor bleeding. Who taught her how to punch like that?"

"Charlie," Ron grunted. "Said she could use some self-defense. I'd say she caught on. Damn! That hurt!"

"What did you say to her, Ron?" Hermione asked sternly.

"I didn't say anything!" Ron said defensively. "Not one word, I swear!"

"We were talking about Malfoy," Harry said. "Then Ginny started to get this twitchy look; I remember because Colin, Dean, and Blaise all turned to look at her. Then she just flew across the table and punched Ron. It was a clean right hook, I'll give her that."

"Lovely," Ron muttered, finally standing and sighing. When he listened hard enough, he could hear Ginny still screaming above him.

"Well, I think we need to explore the option that Ginny likes Malfoy," Hermione said quietly, looking apprehensively at Ron and Harry.

"What?!"

Hermione flinched at the general consensus of her friends and tried a different approach. She bit the inside of her cheek for a moment before saying, "Okay, let me put it this way: Ginny has had a secret boyfriend since winter holiday last year."

"Nuh-uh!"

Hermione flinched again. "All right. And at the risk of sounding terribly childish, yeah-huh. Please tell me at least one of you sort of noticed."

All she got back were blank stares. She sighed and tried another approach. "Okay, Harry, didn't you ever wonder why she didn't follow you around like a sick puppy all year? She's practically ostracized herself from us. She spends most of her time with Dean, Colin, and Blaise."

"You think she's dating one of them then?" Ron said.

Hermione resisted the urge to punch him herself. "NO! Ron, are you stupid? You know what? Don't answer that. Dean and Blaise are gay. Colin and Ginny are like brother and sister."

"Gay?" Ron said doubtfully. "With each other?"

"I don't know," Hermione said tiredly. "But I think her secret boyfriend is Draco Malfoy."

Ron snorted with a small smile on his face. "No, Hermione; sorry, I can't believe that. He's always been mean to her. Ginny's smart; she's learned. I don't think she'd go after someone like Malfoy. He's a prick; everyone hates him."

"She's started writing in a diary again," Harry said quietly.

Ron's head swiveled to Harry, his eyes wide. "Are you sure?"

"I've seen it, too, Ron," Hermione said quietly. "She looks very happy though. And her depression... Well, depressed people don't really punch people, now do they? I think it could actually be good for her."

"Okay," Ron said, "I can buy the diary, but Malfoy?"

"Why else would she punch you, Ron?" Harry replied. "You were saying some not very complimentary things about him. I'm not saying any of them aren't true, but they were pretty bad."

"Why wouldn't she tell me?" Ron said. "She's going to get hurt! Malfoy's no good!"

Hermione snorted. "Well, with an attitude like that," she said dismissively, "I wonder. You wouldn't have been reasonable about it; you would have killed him, Ron."

"Yeah, and?" Ron said, giving them a face that said "obviously." "He's trying to manipulate her. His father's a bleeding Death Eater! And he left school early to be 'abroad'? I don't think so. He's training or something. He's probably going to use her as bait for something...or something."

"I don't trust it, Hermione," Harry said thoughtfully. "Ron is right; he's out becoming a Death Eater."

"Dreams?" Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head. "Not really. I mean, I had one around spring holiday, but I haven't had one since. It's kind of like they're all being filtered away, because I get some dreams...happy dreams at least."

Hermione frowned and sighed. "I don't know what that means, but I can do some research when school starts."

"Are you both forgetting something?" Ron said tensely. "Like my sister is being manipulated by Malfoy?"

Hermione sighed. "You forget, Ron, I'm only guessing. She could just be standing up for him; she does that sometimes. Like when you were making fun of that boy in Ravenclaw, that Someone Hickory. She looked ready to punch you then, too."

"Yeah," Ron said. Then he snorted. "But he was pretty stupid. And a Ravenclaw, too..."

Hermione smacked him upside the head, hard. She frowned at him. "Gee, I wonder why she does it. I mean, other than the fact that it's rather satisfying."

"Come on, Hermione," Ron said. "I'm worried about her."

"We could watch her," Harry said. "You know, not stalk her or anything, but we could walk her to classes and sit with her and stuff. I feel bad about second year still. All those times she tried to tell us. I don't want the same thing to happen twice."

Hermione nodded her head. "I think that's all we can do for now. I don't know if she would punch me, but I think she would punch either one of you. You can be pretty annoying sometimes."

"Oi!" Ron said. "I resent that."

"I'm sure you do," muttered Hermione. "But really, school starts in less than a week; we can watch her then. I just hope she'll forgive you before then, Ron, because I don't want to explain to your mother why your blood is all over her kitchen walls."

Ron and Harry nodded in agreement.

* * *

_Electrified with a Glance, Part I_

Her heart leapt and sang as he walked into the room. She'd waited nearly five months to see him again. Five months of crying, of doubting, of wondering, of worrying, and of thinking. Five months she spent scared for him, scared he might not come back, scared he might not feel the same about her, scared he wouldn't mean what he said in the dream.

She'd kept close tabs on him during those five months. He hadn't slept. Not once did she find him sleeping. He must have found some sort of charm or potion to make him stay awake. She thought, at first, that he was avoiding her. But then it came to her that she wouldn't want to sleep if she were in the company he was in at the time. She didn't want him to be in that company, full stop, much less herself.

So when she saw him again (they couldn't meet on the Express, her brother might find out, and he was getting pretty suspicious), she felt like running to him and throwing her arms around him. He walked casually to his seat, not looking her or anyone in the eye.

Ginny frowned when she noticed he looked very tired, very tired indeed. And he had harsh rings around his eyes. He appeared to have lost weight, or maybe he just got taller. His shoulders were a bit broader; that Ginny noticed. Along with his eyes. They didn't spark the same as they used to. They didn't carry that same glow when he looked around. Ginny wondered what exactly happened to him on those trips abroad.

But finally, he looked at her. It was brief, but Ginny could tell he wanted to talk to her, see her. His eyes sparked momentarily but resumed their deadness when someone asked him something. Ginny noticed the Head Boy badge sparkling proudly on his chest and smiled. It was too bad for him; he would have to have meetings with Hermione, and she knew how much Draco loathed her. It wasn't because she wasn't pureblood; it was because she made his life a living hell at home.

The headmaster made his traditional speech, and the new students were sorted. Ginny smiled, remembering her own sorting. It seemed so long ago. She sighed, casting another glance at Draco then looking across the table at Colin. He was talking to Dean and Seamus about something or other. Ginny noticed Ron, Hermione, and Harry were sitting suspiciously close to her. Usually they sat all the way at the other side of the table. What were they doing over here?

She sighed, picking at her food and letting her mind wander. She was going to have to take care of the Terrific Trio if she was going to sneak off any time soon. She bit her lip and sneaked a glance at Ron and Hermione. Those two wouldn't really be a problem; they were pretty much caught up in themselves. And even though Hermione was Head Girl that year and had special access to basically everywhere, Ginny doubted she knew about Inverted Tower.

But Harry... Harry would be a problem. Harry-who-couldn't-keep-a-steady-girlfriend-for-the-life-of-him would definitely be a problem. He needed someone who would grasp his attention, if only for a little while. Ginny wondered... At one time it had been Cho, but she was gone. Perhaps another little Ravenclaw would do the trick. Oh shit, he was looking at her.

Ginny smiled quickly at him and took a bite of food, turning to Colin and Dean. Just then, Draco caught her eye and directed her attention surreptitiously to the exit. She licked her lips, gave him the briefest of nods, and went back to eating. She would leave in a few minutes; she'd give him time to go.

Soon enough, she saw Draco leading the first years to the dungeons. The older years mostly stayed at the table, chatting. Ginny took a drink of her pumpkin juice and turned to Colin. "I'm going to turn in early. I've still got a scroll to finish by Wednesday."

"Ginny!" Colin said, grabbing his heart. "Did I hear you right? Your homework isn't done! For shame!"

Ginny snorted, smacking him upside the head before saying goodbye to Dean and walking out the hall. She tried to act casual, tried to blend in with some of the other people leaving, some likely looking Hufflepuffs.

But she veered off from them and went in the direction of the dungeons, glancing behind her to see if she was being followed. When she saw she wasn't, she picked up the pace and turned a few corners. She knew where Draco wanted to meet her; they met there sometimes to go to Inverted Tower.

And though she knew he would be there, she wasn't quite ready for the cold hand that covered her mouth and brought her down a dark hallway. Draco stood in front of her, almost touching, his cool hand on her mouth as he looked around suspiciously.

Up close, Ginny could see how tired he really did look. His hair wasn't shining like it usually did, his skin wasn't as resilient, and his eyes had dark rings under them. He looked as though he'd been hunted though the woods for five months...which, upon reflection, could actually have happened. Ginny had no idea what went on during those months she hadn't seen him.

Finally, he looked her in the eye, and Ginny saw a spark of the man she knew in his gray-lit orbs. He took his hand from her mouth and whispered lightly to her, "Oh gods, Ginny."

And then his lips were on hers, pushing and insistent, as though she were water and he a dehydrated man in the desert. His lips were everywhere, his hands following. He was frenzied and almost rough, and Ginny couldn't help kissing him back in the same fashion. All the tension she felt was draining away into his lips, and Ginny was sure she was drowning his frustrations, too.

He picked her up roughly, practically slamming her against the stone wall and propping her up, giving him better access at her mouth and neck. Ginny groaned and ground her hips to his desperately. A gasp tore his mouth from hers, but it wasn't long before he was kissing her lips again.

Ginny began hoisting herself higher, settling just above his growing erection and rubbing sensually up and down his body. She'd never felt that heat, the heat that made her feel as though her stomach was twisting inside of her. The friction of the activity between her legs was making her lightheaded and crazy.

And Draco was encouraging it by grinding her against the wall, running his hands up and down her stomach and breasts until she thought she would scream. When he finally stopped his frenzied kisses, reluctantly, as Ginny remembered, he held her still against the wall and began whispering to her.

"You have no idea how I've missed you, Ginny," he said in a low voice, almost gravelly, as though he hadn't spoken in a long time. "I thought about you night and day; believe me I thought about you at night. How easy it would have been to give in to a dream of you! But I wanted to protect you."

"I know," Ginny breathed into his ear. "I know. I missed you, too. I need..." She breathed heavily into his ear, lightly and sensually. "Draco, I want you in me. I want you now." To emphasize the point, she ground her hips into his and bit his ear tenderly. "Draco..." she whispered, almost a whimper.

She felt Draco stiffen, in more ways than one, and he kissed her deeply. When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to hers. "Not here, love. Not now."

Ginny nodded, slipping her cheek past his as she held onto him tightly.

* * *

_Electrified with a Glance, Part II_

Harry frowned, telling Ron he was going to follow Ginny. Ron didn't seem to notice, but then he and Hermione were having an exclusive conversation. Harry noticed a lot of conversations nowadays were exclusive. And he didn't really want to hear them, for fear of finding out something he didn't really want to know. He didn't talk much to Hermione or Ron about their relationship, but they didn't make it weird either. They were friends when they were around him and lovers when they weren't. It suited Harry just fine.

Though he knew Ron cared about his sister, he was busy right now and might not be able to take what Harry thought he was about to see. He wasn't looking forward to this. He hoped the only thing he was going to have to see was hand holding because if half what he thought was going to happen happened, he might have to kill himself.

But he needed to make sure what he, Ron, and Hermione had been wondering all summer was true. Were Ginny and Draco going out? Or had it moved past that? He wanted to protect Ginny, and Draco wasn't a safe boyfriend, as far as Harry was concerned. Harry didn't know how much Ginny thought she knew about Draco, but Harry knew one thing too much. Draco's father was a Death Eater, and Draco had just come back from "Death Eater Training Camp." Harry wasn't stupid. He could draw conclusions.

The only thing was he wasn't quite ready for the display of affection he ran upon. He saw Ginny grabbed around a corner, and he waited. If she screamed, he would come and rescue her. If she didn't...well then, he would check who this person was and hopefully have more self-restraint than Ron and not pulverize them on sight.

After a moment, when he deemed it safe, he peeked around the corner. And lo and behold, not ten meters from him, in the middle of the dark hallway, was Ginny's trademark blood-red hair and Malfoy's trademark ghost-white hair. Draco had Ginny pinned up against the wall and was kissing her quite thoroughly. Ginny was hitching herself higher, giving Harry view of a creamy expanse of thigh. Draco kept pressing against her, and Harry caught the sound of Ginny sighing, low and sensual to even his ears.

Harry turned around slowly and pressed his back against the stone wall. It was true. Hermione was right. How was he going to tell Ron? Was he going to tell Ron? Hermione, sure...but Ron? It was asking to be killed and strung up by his toes. It was pretty much suicide. No, he was going to tell Hermione.

And Colin. He was going to want to protect his friend too, and Harry rather doubted he would be too physical about it. He wouldn't kill Harry at least.

Harry sighed and made his way back to the common room. The only problem was he couldn't keep that visual image of Ginny's perfect, creamy thigh clutching Draco's hip out of his mind. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. He hated being the sneaky one.

* * *

_Love Point, Part II_

"No! No, please," Ginny whispered as Draco pulled away.

"I'm sorry, Ginny," he said softly. "I have to go; I can't be missed."

Ginny's bottom lip trembled, and she looked at Draco hopefully. "Take me with you, Draco. Please. I don't care who sees. I don't care, really."

Draco sighed, running his fingers through her hair. "Ginny, think about what you're saying here. I have to protect you. I need you to stay safe. I need that."

"I'd be safe with you," Ginny said soothingly, kissing his earlobe and nipping at it suggestively. "No one would know. You have separate rooms."

Draco groaned as Ginny's foot ran up his calf and she looked at him, her pouting, full lips shimmering with anticipation. She just looked so beautiful, her ruby hair falling slightly over her face, her skin flushed and glowing with tiny beads of sweat. She looked at him with her soft, metallic eyes and bit her lip slightly.

Gods! Just to touch her again! He didn't deny that he wanted her. He'd wanted her all last year but had been scared she was too young and would reject him. He knew it was foolish to think she might reject him… But now that he'd killed... He wasn't the same person with whom she'd fallen in love. He wasn't the same, and it scared him more than anything that she wouldn't love him in spite of it. Or dare he dream, because of it.

But the moment of weakness took him, and he kissed her all too inviting, fleshy lips and mumbled into her ear, "Let's go through the tower. No one will see us."

So they made their way, barely noticing where they were going or what wall they stumbled into. Draco paused only briefly to loosen his tie and bring it over his neck as he opened the door to Inverted Tower. The tie was lost on the ground, along with two pairs of shoes and a sock. Draco barely made it to his bed before his vest was off and he was fumbling at the shirt Ginny wore, which was containing two of the three places he really wanted to visit that night.

* * *

(**A/N:** I edited this next scene so I could publish this chapter on . You can go to my author's page and click on the link provided to read it.)

* * *

_The Morning After Is So Cliché_

The first thing Ginny's mind wanted to do when she woke was deny the events of the last night as one more of her dream fantasies. She was quickly, and happily, proven wrong when Draco's casual gaze met hers, his eyes bag-less and more alive than she'd seen them before. He looked at her, his face masked and his hands playing in her hair.

"Morning, love," he said lightly, smoothing back a strand of her hair and kissing her forehead.

Ginny smiled. "Good morning, Draco. What time is it?"

"Nearly six. You're up early; I expected to have to wake you."

Ginny sniffed. "I don't sleep much anymore."

Draco nodded. "You've got to get out of here; I've got duties, and you can't get caught in the Head Boy's bed."

Ginny nodded, kissing him briefly before rising from the bed, apparently unabashed by her nudity, and began padding about the room, picking up her clothes as she went. She put them on carefully and quietly. Then she turned to him and sat on the edge of his bed.

"When can I see you next? Because if you think you're getting in this bed alone again, you're dead wrong."

Draco smirked and said, "Wait for me in Inverted Tower; I'll be there. How could I refuse such a generous offer?"

Ginny turned her nose up and snorted. "Damn straight."

Then she disappeared down the secret passage to her rooms, and Draco didn't see her until that night.

* * *

_A Good Reason for Anger – Well, a Reason At Least_

Harry watched as Ginny came down the stairs that morning, her face glowing and a radiant smile on her face. It took Harry one in three guesses to figure out where she had been last night. He shouldn't approach her, he knew, but the fact that she was with a Malfoy all night had been gnawing at him for nearly half the night. Combined with the fact that he still couldn't get the visual image of her creamy thigh out of his mind didn't make him the happiest of campers.

She trotted over to Colin, who kissed her cheek and patted the seat between him and Dean. She plopped down comfortably and joined in a conversation Harry couldn't hear.

For some reason, it made Harry angry. He couldn't even describe it. He'd always pictured Ginny as the innocent little girl who had a crush on him. He'd always seen her as the good girl, the one who would grow up and be like her mother, marry a good man and have a Weasley brood of her own. She couldn't have a "Weasley brood" with a Malfoy, especially not Draco Malfoy.

As much as he hated to admit it, Harry was jealous. It wasn't just because Ginny didn't have feelings for him. He could handle it if Ginny were to develop feelings for Colin Creevey or Seamus Finnigan or anyone. The fact that it was Draco Malfoy grated on Harry's nerves. It was like a competition he'd just lost, even though he wasn't really fighting for Ginny.

He didn't like the way it made him feel, but he still had the intense urge to pull Ginny aside and yell sense into her. Ron would if Harry told him. But Harry didn't want to see blood on the ground. Because it wouldn't be Draco's blood. Well, maybe some of it would be, but if Ginny caught wind her brother was going after Malfoy, she would throw a royal fit and most likely kill him. She'd probably kill Harry too. Harry didn't want a repeat of the summer.

So, sighing, he turned from the common room and made his way to the Great Hall. He was thankful Ron wasn't there yet; he'd have a chance to talk to Hermione in private. When he sat down, Hermione took one look over her book at him and set it down.

"What happened?" she said flatly.

"You were right," Harry said in a toneless voice.

Hermione sighed, a mask over her face. "Did you see them together? I noticed him leave with his first years, but I didn't notice Ginny leaving."

"She escaped with a passing group of Hufflepuffs," Harry informed her. "And yes, I did see her."

Hermione sighed again. "Thank the gods it was you and not Ron. He would have blown a gasket."

"I almost did," Harry muttered.

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing to that. "I saw her this morning leaving the showers. I don't think that she," she coughed politely, and her face turned a little pink, "stayed the night."

"She hadn't come back at two when I went to bed," Harry said. "I think we have to assume she did indeed 'stay the night.'"

Hermione bit her lip and said, "I suppose I should talk to Ron about it. He's been twitchy at night... We just won't go there."

"Thanks," Harry said dryly.

* * *

_Duty, Honor, and the Difference Between Slytherins_

Duty.

Who ever heard of a Slytherin with a sense of duty?

Trained in the way of competition and ambition from a young age, Slytherins viewed duty as a thing bought by the rich and at a heavy price. They saw that some gave into duty easily, Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. So when duty was measured against power, the former was dismissed in favor of the latter. And why? In the name of efficiency. In the name of growth. And in the name of ambition. What use had a Slytherin for duty?

But for some odd reason, Draco was drawn to the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry because of that simple notion. It was his duty to inform the headmaster what Voldemort planned. It was his duty to tell the headmaster what went on during the months he was absent from school. It was his duty to protect the people who had never done anything but shun and hate him for nearly six years of his life.

Duty.

And that same sense of duty found him seated in a large, leather chair in front of a fire with his – or should he say Snape's? – silver medallion looped over his head. That same sense of duty found him spilling his guts to an attentively listening, aging man whose existence he had once mocked and cursed. That man was now his only hope for redemption, and perhaps freedom, from his father and the Death Eaters. So now, sitting in that chair, listening to the headmaster accept and offer to protect him, what did he feel?

Loyalty.

Another feeling Slytherins had no use for. Why be loyal to something or even someone? Betrayal was always an option, always. If it was better for you, who cared who got hurt and who cared how it affected the masses? The promise of power had always swayed the Slytherin mind and would continue to do so.

So why feel loyal to Dumbledore?

He inspired it. He perspired it. He manufactured it in every smile, nod, sparkle of his eye, turn of his hand, breath, movement, and word. He inundated people with a certain sense of safety and rewarded them with cleanliness when they told the truth. Cleanliness, another thing foreign to Slytherin, turned out to be a very welcome thing. And as all things grow, so did loyalty. Draco's loyalty grew from a seed to an oak in nearly an hour. He could only imagine how Snape must feel, must have felt.

"You see, Draco," the headmaster said, using his given name freely. "Do you see the way it is, the way it was?"

"Yes, Headmaster," Draco replied, fingering the medallion on his neck again. Partly out of nervousness, partly out of shame. All the things he'd said over the years, what he'd done over the years, and – what disgusted him most – what he'd thought over the years. He never realized how much Lucius had poisoned him. "I want to make it up to you, Headmaster. I want to make it up to everyone."

Dumbledore sighed, looking at Draco with his hands laced together on his desk. It wasn't the same, sparkling gaze he gave most of the time. There was something calculating in it, something powerful. Draco imagined he was seeing the Dumbledore who defeated Grindelwald all those years ago. He imagined he was seeing the real Dumbledore. It was terrifying and awesome at the same time.

"You truly feel the need to right what has been wronged, Draco?"

"Yes." It was automatic.

Another sigh from the headmaster. "What would you be willing to do?"

"Anything. I would spy for you, go undercover, and pretend to be a loyal Death Eater. I would...I would even die, Headmaster."

A pained look came into the headmaster's eyes. He appeared to be remembering something. His eyes became glassy for a moment; then he looked at Draco hard. "To die for the cause is a heavy burden, young Draco. To hear you say that brings back the memory of so many young people who have told me that in the past. Mundungus Fletcher, Dorothea Polenin, but most of all, I think the person of whom you remind me is Severus Snape. You have his attitude, at least when he was younger."

To Draco's surprise, he felt pride. To be compared with his – for all intents and purposes – idol brought great pride to his heart. "Thank you, Headmaster."

Dumbledore nodded briefly. "I would like to tell you something, Draco, something I told Severus when he was young.

"When I was a boy attending Hogwarts, Slytherins were much, much different. They had not been corrupted with the poison of Voldemort yet; they had not been tainted by Grindelwald's evil. Slytherins were, as they are now, ambitious, cunning, quick, and, believe it or not, brave and loyal. Their loyalty was not a loyalty that was bought easily or bought at all with material goods. And their bravery was only surpassed by the greatest of Gryffindors.

"Gryffindor and Slytherin didn't get along then because of the similarities between the houses, as opposed to now when they don't get along because of the differences. The only difference then was sacrifice. When it came down to it, Gryffindors were able to sacrifice more than Slytherins. But there always comes a time when Slytherins see the need for sacrifice. Severus saw it; you see it; hopefully others will too.

"You have broken the mold, Draco. You have proven your conditioning wrong. You have defeated your father, your father's father, and Voldemort. Your victory has been ensured, but the victory of the rest of us still hangs in the balance. You can affect this balance, Draco.

"So do you really understand now? Do you know what it will mean for you, for the cause, and, dare I say, Miss Weasley?"

Draco's eyes widened.

"Yes, Draco, I know of your young relationship with Miss Weasley. The secrets Inverted Tower will tell when you have the right password..."

"You know about Inverted Tower?" Draco asked in a semi-strangled voice.

"Oh, yes. Very little happens in this castle that I don't know about. For that matter, very little happens Minerva doesn't know about either. But I don't think you'll have to worry about her; she supports you spending time with Miss Weasley. She believes in Miss Weasley enough to think she can, as Minerva puts it, 'straighten out his father's brainwashing.' I think she has a measure of respect for you, Draco, something she very rarely feels for Slytherins."

Draco couldn't help the throbbing vein in his left temple. They knew? But – but how? Draco shook his head and blinked a few times. He always had suspected Dumbledore knew everything. Now his suspicions were confirmed. And it was a little creepy.

"Um, thank you. I think," Draco said uncomfortably.

Dumbledore only smiled and said, "You will need to protect her, Draco. She is in great danger."

"I know, Headmaster," Draco replied solemnly.

The headmaster sighed and pulled out a drawer in the desk. After rummaging about for a moment, he pulled out a simple box. Then he placed it on his desk and pushed it over to Draco. He looked at Draco encouragingly, so Draco tentatively opened it. He pulled out a red gold, coin-like pendant and glanced questioningly at the headmaster.

"It's Godric's Crest," Dumbledore explained. "He created it as a form of protection against the darker powers. I gave Severus one; he carries it on a chain around his neck. It's a very handy little coin if you discover all of its secrets."

Draco stared at it for a moment. Ancient runes were imprinted on the surface of the coin, and when Draco touched it, an antediluvian magic vibrated from it. "Thank you," Draco said cautiously.

Dumbledore just nodded again. "I believe it will help you. Now, Draco, I think it is time for you to return to your rooms. Goodnight and good luck."

Draco stood, thanking the headmaster again and heading towards the door. Then he stopped and turned. "Professor Snape gave me a medallion..."

"The Voice Recorder," Dumbledore said. "Yes, I know."

"I want you to have it," Draco said. "There are a lot of things recorded that I think you should hear."

He took off the medallion and placed it in the headmaster's hands. Then, after a brief nod, he left. Under the guise of monitoring the midnight halls, he made his way to his rooms, tossing his robes into the corner and shucking off his shirt and slacks. And then he very nearly flopped down on a peacefully resting Ginny Weasley.

Draco's eyes widened, surprised she'd got through his charms without him realizing it and then setting them back up with apparently no trouble. With a smile on his face, he crawled into the bed next to her. She instinctively moved closer to him, her arms going around his neck. Yes, Draco could get used to this.

* * *

_Diamond in the Ruffº_

It was dangerous, he had been told, to mingle with these people. He didn't want to live like this, not knowing what he was going to have to say to whom or what he was going to have to do to make someone slip and reveal something. Percy was smart; there was no way around that. But Percy wasn't cut out for this court-trained, Slytherin-like information gathering job. And Charlotte hadn't been much help.

"I will leave you with a friend, though I can't tell you their name. Go with your instincts," she said.

Oh, fine, he could go with his instincts well enough. His instincts told him to bolt from the room and not come back until he had the greatest Aurors of all time backing him, so he could throw the lot of them in Azkaban where they could rot away their preposterous excuses for lives. His instincts told him that if they knew the real reason he was there, they'd Avada Kedavra him on the spot.

"Percy Weasley, imagine seeing you here!"

_No! Nonononono! Not her! Not-her-not-her! _ "Ms. Mariner," Percy said courteously, nodding his head.

Her name was Marissa Mariner, and she was the daughter of Archibald Mariner, the commissioner of the International Confederation of Wizards. Archibald Mariner was a very powerful man, a very powerful man. He was also a good man, very fair and very wise. He was one of the few men Percy trusted in the ICW. Too bad his daughter was a manipulative, Slytherin whore.

Percy knew her well. Actually, he didn't really know her, but he knew of her. She was in his year at Hogwarts, a particularly loose woman as he remembered. He'd heard horror stories about how she slept her way to better marks in Snape's class and whored around with Marcus Flint and the like. Percy wasn't denying she was pretty, because she was. Her hair was so black it seemed blue, and her eyes were of the same color. She had perhaps the whitest skin he'd ever seen, and blue, runic tattoos peeking out from her scanty, midnight-colored dress.

Percy didn't like her, and she knew it. He supposed it was half the reason she bothered him. He'd had a rather hard time with Penelope about her. But Penelope knew what type of person she was and eventually just ignored her.

"Oh, Percy!" she cooed. "Fancy seeing you here! And look how handsome you've become. It seems just the other day you were skin and bone, and now, well now, you're so _manly_."

"You haven't changed a bit," Percy replied icily. He really wanted her to leave.

Instead she let out a high-pitched sound that Percy was forced to assume was her version of a laugh. "Oh, Percy! Such a kidder."

"I am truly sorry, madam," Percy said in a stony voice. "But I have business to talk, no time for trivial matters such as how much I've changed from school. Good-day, Ms. Mariner."

"Percy!" she said in a whine.

But Percy ignored her, walking off to talk to Monte Simmons, a person on his list of people to watch and a member of the Improper Use of Magic Office. Before he knew it, he was forcefully being led to the back of the room by a strong arm, through a heavy door and down a dark passage. He barely had time to complain when he was forcibly pushed against a wall.

"I swear to the _gods_, Weasley," Marissa's cold voice said, "you fuck this up for me, and I'll skin you alive. What the _HELL_ are you doing here?"

Percy, too stunned to speak, merely sputtered out unintelligible phrases for a moment. "Now, Ms. Mariner –"

"Oh, cut the shit, Perce," Marissa said darkly as she let him go, lighting a cigarette with her wand and taking a short puff. "How the hell did you get here?"

Percy, thoroughly confused, not to mention upset, glared at the smoking woman and said, "Not that it's any of your business, but I was invited to this little impromptu get-together."

Marissa snorted and took another drag of her cigarette before crushing it on the ground. "You can't be one of them, Perce; I know you. It isn't in your character. You don't even like me. So, I ask you, who got you the invite to the party?"

Percy looked at her hard. Had he misjudged her? Why was she here? Listen to your instincts... Okay, instincts were good. Charlotte Teasdale had said he would find a friend...but it couldn't be Marissa Mariner. She was – well, she was a Slytherin. She was scum beneath his feet.

Marissa sighed, rolling her eyes. "Fine, you want proof, Perce; I'll give you proof."

She propped her foot up on the wall, pulling back her blue, almost negligee dress robes and displaying her pale thigh. Percy politely turned his head.

"Oh, Perce, you're such a prude; I'm just getting my identification," she said in a sing-song voice.

"My mistake," Percy said formally. "I was under the impression you, madam, were a whore by profession and were going to entertain –"

But the rest was cut out by her laughter, a rich courtesan's laughter. Percy flushed pink and turned to her again. She smirked at him, displaying her pearly whites, and held out a golden medallion. Percy recognized it; Charlotte had given him an identical one. It meant he was an Unspeakable, or working as one.

"I'll need to see yours," Marissa said lightly, "you know, to verify you are who I think you are. I really don't want to Obliviate you, Perce; I like you."

"I find that very hard to believe, madam," Percy said coldly, reaching into his shirt and showing her his medallion of proof. "Now, if you would please tell me what this is all about, Ms. Mariner…"

Marissa looked at him in a calculating manner. "I take it Teasdale just sort of left you with the 'go with your instincts' bit, did she? She told me that, but your instincts always were better than most, Perce."

"Would you please stop calling me 'Perce'?" he said, irritated. "It makes me uncomfortable."

"Aw! Kiss kiss, Perce!"

"Surely you jest, madam."

Marissa just laughed again, her throaty chuckle making his hair stand on end. He really didn't like her. She stopped laughing and turned serious. "But getting down to business..."

"I always assumed your business involved that, yes," Percy said dryly.

"Oh," Marissa said playfully, batting her thick eyelashes at him. "Feisty, aren't we? Someone got a sharp tongue after school, didn't they? But if you must know, yes, most of my business involves me getting down and dirty with some of the scummiest men on the planet. Well, I guess I should get some props; I do Obliviate them afterwards."

Percy frowned. "Who exactly do you work for, Ms. Mariner?"

Marissa frowned as well, taking out another cigarette and taking a long drag off it before she answered. "Always were straightforward and proper, weren't you, Weasley? Well, it's to be expected. I suppose I should tell you the truth. After all, Teasdale would have expected me to explain some things to you."

"I like to think that," Percy said, noting her change in behavior and posture. Percy settled on the option that she could have Multiple Personality Disorder. Either that or she was just insane. Same thing once he began thinking about it.

She took another drag off her cigarette and said, "Let me tell you a story, Perce; just for kicks, eh?

"Once upon a time, there was this girl, and her name was Marissa. She loved her mother and father very dearly. But one day, her mother was killed by some bastard claiming to be the high lord of everything, whatnot, so on and so forth, forever more, and etcetera. Well, let's just say Marissa didn't like that very much, and neither did her father.

"Now Marissa was a fourth year when this happened, a very pretty, yet still impressionable fourteen-year-old witch who just happened to excel in Charms. She was a Slytherin but, as it turned out, not a very good one. For you see, she wished day and night for the destruction of that man who killed her mother and left her father in a pit of depression.

"Marissa was smart and had a cunning, Slytherin mind. So, as a fourth year, she began devising a way to bring down the man who killed her mother. Sure, it involved sex, manipulation, lying, Obliviating, stealing, and, yes, killing. But what exactly would we not do for honor, Weasley? What wouldn't you sacrifice?

"As it turns out, Marissa would give everything, and she did. She gave up her virginity to some bastard claiming to be very high on the Death Eater mailing list of He Who Must Not Be Named. She gave her reputation over to be called a whore and slag by every boy in her school. She gave up her life to catch the son of a bitch that killed her mother.

"And so it went on for young Marissa. She would gather information from the men she had sex with, Obliviating them afterwards (I did mention she was a skilled Charmer, right?). She moved into the highest circles of trust, gathering information from the most important people and giving it over to her father, an influential wizard and good friend of Albus Dumbledore and, coincidentally, Charlotte Teasdale.

"Now Marissa moves with the most dangerous people in the world, sleeping with and Obliviating them. She has their trust; they have confidence in her opinion. And let me tell you this, Weasley. If I don't like you, if I don't give you the official Whore's Guarantee, you're as good as nothing, because these people won't believe for one minute the Golden Boy of All Good Boys Weasley wants any part of the game they're playing.

"So what's it gonna be, Perce? You going to trust the whore, or are you going to get eaten alive by the piranhas at the party?"

Percy considered this for a long while, watching her flick away the stub of cigarette she'd let burn out while she was talking. She had the medallion, she had a convincing story, and she had a clear reason for wanting Voldemort dead.

Percy stuck out his hand. "Deal."

Marissa took it and winked. "Kiss kiss!"

"I'll decline, thank you," Percy said dryly.

* * *

ºViolence Is Inherent in the System! – if you've ever watched Monty Python's Holy Grail, you'll know that the mud-farming, political theorist says this to King Arthur…"Help! I'm being oppressed!"

ºDiamond in the Ruff – reference to the magical genie lamp is called this in _Aladdin _(or_ Arabian Nights_, whichever you prefer)


	11. Windows to the Soul

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER ELEVEN:**

**Windows to the Soul**

* * *

_Memoirs of the Midnight Man, Part II_

"But – but, my Lord! The boy said he had begun manipulating her! He said she would be ready!" The shorter man whimpered on the ground, shivering in fright and huddling close to the shoe of the taller man.

"Her name, Wormtail, I want her name," the midnight man said. "I won't wait any longer for her! I want her now! I require an heir, Wormtail, and I require one now!"

Wormtail looked as though he would die of fright, his silver arm glinting in the angry moonlight. He crawled closer to his master, only to be pushed away again. "I will find her name, Master!" It came out like the terrified squeal of a wild pig. "Let me call Lucius Malfoy; Draco must have reported something to him! Please, Master!"

The master calmed. "Yes, the boy would have reported to his father by now. Yes, call to me Lucius Malfoy; call to me my Death Eater."

Wormtail nodded and disappeared into the darkness of the wood for a moment. He returned, whispering hushed things to the taller man in black. Only the man's aristocratic hands showed from his robes, but even his hands reeked of evil and sin.

He bowed gracefully to the master, letting his words drip like honey off his tongue. "What can I do for you, Master? I live only to serve you."

"Yes," the dark man said drably. "That you do, Lucius. That you do."

The dark man stood, walking slowly to the kneeling Death Eater, and caressed the hood of the man's robe back. He sighed and wound his fingers in the man's pale locks. Then he sneered and pulled on them, tilting the man's head up forcibly.

"What news from your son, Lucius?" he growled impatiently.

After the proper amount of simpering and homage-paying, Lucius managed to squeal out a few intelligible words. "Master! He says his seduction of the Weasley girl is going to plan. He says he should have her in his webs within the month, by Christmas! Oh, Master!"

The man of midnight sneered again, tossing Malfoy to the side and putting his hand to his chin. "A Weasley was the one who opened my diary; yes, I remember that now. What is her name, Lucius, her given name?"

The man on the ground said, "Ginevra, My Lord. Her name is Ginevra Weasley."

The dark man inhaled deeply, his serpent's eyes flashing. "Ginevra Weasley," he breathed.

"Yes, Master," Lucius said.

The tall man turned to the one on the ground, lifting his chin so he could meet his eyes. "I grow impatient, Lucius. I want her now, no more waiting."

"Yes, Master," the simpering man said. "I will tell Draco. He is loyal to you; he will bring her to you."

"No, Lucius," the dark man warned. "I want her now."

* * *

_The Real Deceiver_

Ginny woke and immediately rushed to the bathroom to puke all the contents in her stomach. Her head felt heavy, as though someone had been pounding at it with a metal hammer. It felt worse than when Dorothea began to make contact with her. She vomited again, remaining quiet so as to not wake Draco.

_Draco... _

It all came crashing down on her. He was... He was trying... _ …a Death Eater… _to capture her. In the dream, it had said that. Voldemort had said that. She was seeing one of Harry's dreams again. Dorothea warned her this would happen if she didn't keep her shields high enough.

_DRACO WAS TRYING TO GIVE HER TO VOLDEMORT!_

She knew she should have listened to Dorothea. Keeping her shields up was important. It got her where she was right then, puking her guts out because her head couldn't handle the sledgehammer power of Harry's dreams. Especially his dreams of Voldemort.

_AND HE WAS GOING TO LET VOLDEMORT RAPE HER TO GET AN HEIR! _

The dreams of Voldemort always came the strongest. She remembered having the dreams long before she knew she was a Dreamweaver. One of his dreams would just invade her every once in a while. Her strongest wall would fall to him.

_HE SAID HE LOVED HER! HE WAS LYING THE WHOLE TIME! _

Ginny shuddered on the ground, wrapping her arms around her legs and huddling in the corner. He betrayed her. Draco betrayed her. She had loved him, and he betrayed her. He said he loved her. He had lied. It was all a lie. Everything he said, everything he did, everything he felt...all of them lies.

She trembled mightily as she walked into his room again, watching him carefully as he slept. She's slept in the same bed as her betrayer for two months. She'd given her love to him. She'd made love to him. She'd given him everything she was, and he was going to betray her. She thought he had changed. She thought he wasn't like the rest of them.

And she was wrong.

She climbed into her Hogwarts uniform silently and bit her lip, unsure what to do. Flee? Yes, that sounded good. But no, she was no chicken. She could catch him without his wand; he was sleeping. She grabbed his wand from his night table, clutching it to her as she backed away from him, towards the fireplace.

She sat in the chair and waited. What would she say? She would have to confront him. She would have to tell him off. That was a given. But what would she tell her family? What would she tell Ron? Blaise? Colin? She bit her lip, watching him sleep.

Gods! Why did he have to feel so right?! Why did every inch of her want to go to him and make love to him?! Why did it have to _FEEL_ right!?! He'd been so real, so completely truthful. But that was all a lie. A Slytherin lie. A lie to lead her to her capture and who knew what else.

Ginny felt the tears coming and stopped them promptly as he began to wake. His hand felt her absence on the bed, and Ginny almost gagged. His lies started with the first thing he did in the morning. That hurt the most. He never stopped. He was a player in the game from the time he went to sleep to the time he woke. Ginny snorted as she recalled that even in his sleep he seemed to love her.

"Ginny?" he asked in a morning voice. He cleared his throat and looked around. "Where are you?"

"Right here," she whispered, standing and crossing her arms as she leaned against the fireplace.

He sat up in the bed and frowned. "What's wrong, Gin?"

Ginny's lip trembled slightly. Why did he have to sound so sincere? Why did he have to sound like he loved her? She pointed a shaky hand, her wand directed at him, with his firmly in her pocket.

"Ginny?" he asked again, looking very confused and lost. His eyes were worried as he began to rise from the bed. It made Ginny want to not care. Just as long as he pretended to love her the way he had been...

No! She would be strong. Gryffindors were strong. Weasleys were strong. She was both. "Stay right where you are," she commanded in a brutally shaky voice.

Draco looked at her, his eyes still confused. But they traveled from her face to her wand, and he looked at his night table. He frowned when he saw he had no wand. "Ginny, what's going on?" he asked in an unsure voice. He stayed where he was, though.

Ginny stood straight and stared at him with hard eyes. "I think I should be the one to ask that question, Draco."

"Maybe you should explain what I did, and we –"

"You want me to explain?! If anything, you should explain, Draco! Or were you not going to tell me until Voldemort had raped me enough for the child to seed?" Ginny's bottom lip trembled violently, and the floodgates opened. Her face glistened with tears. "Were you not man enough to just capture me outright? Why did you have to make me love you, Draco? Why?"

"Oh, Gin," Draco said, apparently understanding. A look of hurt came over his face, and Ginny cursed him again for being such a good player in the game at which she was helpless.

He began to rise again, and Ginny glared at him through wet eyes. "_DON'T YOU DARE MOVE, Draco Malfoy!_"

He stopped and looked at her pleadingly. "Ginny, please, you have to listen to me. Please, Gin? Just put down the wand. I want to explain to you, please."

Ginny shook her head. "No, I won't listen to your lies anymore, Draco. I can't believe I ever did. That's all it was to you, one big lie. One master move in your game of life. I was just a pawn you used to get the prize, right?"

"No, Ginny," he said, his eyes imploring her to believe him. "Not you. I would never play that game with you. Please let me explain, Gin. Please. I love –"

"_SHUT UP, DRACO! _ I won't believe your lies anymore! You haven't changed at all! I won't let you manipulate me! You just leave me alone! I'm not going to let him get me again! I refuse! Don't make me hurt you, Draco; stay in that bed."

"Ginny, please!" he cried as she moved to the door. "Listen to me! I beg you!"

"No," Ginny whispered, almost too quietly. "You listen to me, Draco Malfoy. I gave you a chance. I gave you my heart. I gave you a lot of things. And if I thought for one minute that your love was true, I'd give them a thousand times and not care about you being a Death Eater or not. But you lied to me. You took false words and made me believe them. I may not hate you now, but someday, when I can heal from this, I will find you to be the most despicable human on the face of this earth."

Draco looked so completely heartbroken that Ginny, for a moment, believed she was wrong. That perhaps the dream had been a mistake. That perhaps in her flawed logic, she had seen something wrong.

"Ginny..."

"No," Ginny said in a hard voice. She backed into the door of Draco's entrance to Inverted Tower and opened it. "If you know what's good for you, Draco, don't follow me."

Then she dashed out of the room, just in time to hear the anguished wail of Draco calling her name. But Ginny ran and ran, leaving Draco's wand on the ground in Inverted Tower and sprinting to her room. Once she was there, she decided she couldn't face things at that moment. Even though it was snowing, she intensely needed to be outside and in the fresh air, the clean breeze on her face.

Anything to rid her of the disgusting feeling of betrayal seeping into her skin. Anything to cleanse her – if even for a little while. Trudging out into the cold snow, her lips chilled and her eyelashes began to weigh down with snowflakes. Everything felt tainted on her; she wanted to scrub it off her with rock or serrated metal or something.

She stopped, staring up at the sky. The winds whipped the newly fallen snow around her face, while her feet browned the pure flakes resting on the ground. She sighed, closing her eyes and letting her hands drop to her sides. Little snowflakes danced on her nose; the wind played games in the trees and in her hair. She wasn't cold; she was being cleansed.

Ginny fell to her knees, letting the snow soak the thin, school uniform skirt as the tears ran down her face, frozen in the cold. A great sense of loneliness and wrongness washed over her. That was when she felt it, the lightning-like sensation that she was being watched. A sharp sting in the back of the head told her she had been hit by some foreign spell. As if in a daze, she brought her hand to the crown on her head and felt something warm. Looking at it, she knew it was blood, her blood. And before she knew it, she was lying face down in the snow, her world going black.

* * *

_The Source of Samson's Powers, Part Iº_

He couldn't believe how easy it actually was. He had expected her to fight, or at least protest a little. But she hadn't even looked at him. She had barely acknowledged his presence when he hit her with the curse in the back of the head. She had barely reacted other than looking at her blood-stained fingers. With the curse he'd thrown at her, it was a wonder she was able to do that.

He got a look at her and immediately understood Pettigrew's intense fear of her. A face and body like that was enough to turn any man's head, and he had immediately noticed that her Elemental power was far greater than Narcissa's. Narcissa wasn't as weak as he told her she was, but this girl's – this Weasley's – power far surpassed any he had ever seen. Well, perhaps not his master's. But that was going to be tested.

Also, by looking at her, he could tell why his master wanted her so badly. She emitted a sensual aroma of power and magic strong enough to drive a man insane. He wondered how his son had done it. But then, his son could be immune to the Elemental power of her blood, being one himself, or part of one.

He trampled the snow, closing the distance between himself and her. She was facedown in the snow, her blood-red hair splayed ethereally around her. He flipped her over. She was even more breathtaking up close. Suddenly having a driving need to touch her skin, he took off one of his gloves with his teeth and caressed her cheek with soft fingers.

There was no doubting her beauty or her power. Her skin hummed with it. He smoothed her crimson hair away from her face, running his fingers over her forehead, nose, and fleshy, red lips. He bit back the desire to kiss her. It had been a long time since he'd had that desire. He never even kissed Narcissa anymore.

So frowning and wrapping her in a coat, he walked off Hogwarts campus. She was light, for which he was thankful. He made it outside the grounds and drew his wand. He Apparated to the ancient stone castle at which his master had stationed himself. It was an old castle, rumored to be the home of Mordred, the cursed son of Arthur of Camelot. It was an evil place, one of darkness. It served his master well.

Upon entering the cursed castle, he met his master's servant. He shied away from the girl, her aura, even unconscious, still powerful enough to incite fear in the short, silver-armed man.

"The master wishes to see her now, Lucius," he said fearfully, backing away with every step. His message given, he bolted.

Repressing the urge to roll his eyes, he walked into the open chamber his master occupied. His master was sitting at the stone seat; his cold fingers steepled, his face dangerously calm. Approaching his master was the worst part, all the simpering and begging for forgiveness. He knew why his son hated it; the whole thing was degrading.

"Master," Lucius simpered, holding the girl carefully, so as to not incur his lord's wrath. "I have her, Master."

A cruel smile graced his master's face, and his eyes narrowed maliciously. Then he licked his lips and said, "Leave her, Lucius."

* * *

_Caesar and Brutus, Jesus and Judas – She Calls Herself Righteous_

Narcissa fingered the jewel around her neck before dunking it back under her dress robes. Her hands shook nervously as she took out her wand, smoothing the willow lightly and swallowing hard. She checked her appearance in the mirror again. She'd covered up the bruises well, healed most of them. Her face was as porcelain as it had ever been, and her eyes just as chilly blue. Her hair was pulled back artfully in a light sapphire pin that matched her eyes. Her dress was of the same color, frosty blue. After pulling on her coat – it was white fox – she held her wand in the air and Disapparated.

She knew where she was headed; she had planned it since Draco came home from his "training" and told her everything. She had to warn Dumbledore if he didn't already know. She had to tell someone. She had a guess Dumbledore knew about Lucius' master's plans for the girl. But she knew he wouldn't know where to find the Weasley girl. She only knew by accident herself.

So when she appeared in front of the castle's gates that chilly evening, she pulled her white hood over her head and closed her eyes. Creating a shield around her with the wind, blending in with the white snow, she walked steadily to the headmaster's office. She knew the way from her days as a student walking the halls. She briefly touched the memories of her school days, perhaps the only happy memories in her young life.

She looked over at the Quidditch pitch, smiling when she saw Ravenclaw was practicing actively. She was able to pick out the Seeker immediately, wishing she could be up there with them, the chilly wind blowing through her hair and caressing her skin.

But she walked on, clearing her path through the snow with the wind. A dog's bark was heard in the direction she wanted to go. She knew she couldn't walk right into the castle, not without escort. It wouldn't be proper. So when she came upon the small hut on the fringes of the Forbidden Forest , she paused and rapped lightly on the large door.

Barking sounded louder from inside, and she backed away fearfully. She didn't do well with dogs. She'd had some bad experiences. But the door opened, and Hagrid stood exactly the way she remembered him. Well, perhaps he had a few more gray hairs and looked a little less boyish. He appeared very surprised, his bead-like eyes widening when he saw her.

"Good evening, Monsieur Hagrid," she said softly, bowing her head.

"Ms. Black – I mean, Mrs. Malfoy –"

"I'd rather you didn't call me that, Monsieur Hagrid," she said softly, pleading with her eyes. He looked very sympathetic, but not the way most people did when they attempted to show that emotion. He seemed sincere.

"I see," he said in a rough voice. "Well then, Ms. Black, won't you come in?"

"Please," Narcissa said politely, walking through the door and accepting Hagrid's request for her coat. He offered her a seat, and she took it, appreciating his kindness. He never had judged her, even when he found out her secret. He was one of the first, she remembered. But even then, he never judged her.

"I – Ms. Black – now I don't mean to be rude or nothin', an' I hope you don't mind me askin', but what are you doing here?" he asked as he sat across from her in a large chair.

Narcissa nodded and said, "No, Monsieur Hagrid, I don't mind you asking. I came in hope that you could help me see Headmaster Dumbledore. It's about the Weasley girl."

Hagrid's eyes opened wide, and he stood. "You know where Ginny went?"

Narcissa's jaw dropped. "She's gone? When? How?"

"We've got to get to Dumbledore! Follow me, Ms. Black."

Narcissa was unceremoniously pulled from her seat and put in her coat by the well meaning half-giant. Then she was systematically dragged through the snow, up to the castle, up a flight of stairs, through a series of twisting halls, to a statue – at which the words "cherry cobbler suckers" were uttered – and up yet another flight of stairs to a grand room where a mildly surprised headmaster sat. He smiled, his eyes pleased and bright as he looked at her.

"Ah, Mrs. Malfoy," he said warmly. "What a pleasant surprise. Please, sit."

"I – thank you, Headmaster," Narcissa said, about as calmly as she felt. She shivered slightly from the chill that passed over her.

"Thank you, Hagrid," Dumbledore said calmly, yet dismissively.

Hagrid nodded and left, though Narcissa rather hoped he wouldn't. She forced herself to calm. She pulled away the hood of her white cloak and straightened her hair a little.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Malfoy?" the headmaster said delicately, handing her a cup of tea.

Her hands shaking as they had earlier, Narcissa took it, but she didn't drink any. Instead, she held it politely and swallowed. "I would appreciate if you would call me by my maiden name, Headmaster Dumbledore."

"Only if you call me Albus," he countered.

Narcissa couldn't help a small smile as she nodded. "Agreed, Albus. And there is something that you can do for me. I much desire to assist with the search for Mademoiselle Weasley. That is the only thing I request."

The fire spat up unceremoniously, and the fire-lined face of a tired, yet still vital man appeared. The headmaster merely smiled and said, "Remus, please do join us."

Narcissa's breath caught in her throat as the head in the fire nodded solemnly and the whole body of Remus Lupin appeared in front of the hearth. But her eyes widened and her tea dropped when he turned to her, an unreadable, suspicious look on his face. He looked better than the last time she had seen him. That was many, many years ago, shortly after she left school. He seemed healthier, more stable, but still angry and solemn. Narcissa's fingers stifled a gasp as he shook his graying hair and let out an animalistic sound.

"Let me help you with that, Narcissa," Dumbledore said kindly, repairing her cup of tea and setting it on the table in front of her. "Please, Remus –" directing his attention to the suspicious man "– sit. Have some tea."

Lupin snorted and sat, accepting the offer for tea and continuing to glare at Narcissa, which made her uncomfortable. No matter, she could handle it. He would not corner her as he had all those years ago. She had schooled him out of her blood long ago, hadn't she?

"Not to worry, Narcissa," the headmaster said warmly, taking a sweet and plopping it in his mouth. "Young Remus here is helping with this case too. A special favor for Molly Weasley. You remember Molly Weasley, don't you?"

Yes, she remembered the woman. She had been a sixth year when Narcissa was a first year and hadn't liked her because Narcissa had somewhat of a sharp tongue back then. She was still touchy about the whole orphan thing. Molly had struck a few chords with her when she was tutoring Charms for Professor Flitwick.

"Yes," Narcissa answered softly, shying away from Lupin's heavy gaze.

The headmaster smiled and continued. "Now, as for you giving assistance in the case of the young Miss Weasley, I would love to have your help, Narcissa. How can you aid us?"

For some reason, Narcissa felt her eyes go to Lupin before she answered. She berated herself for being such a chicken and cleared her throat. "I believe that I know where she is, Albus. And, if you don't know the Dark Lord's plans for her already, I believe I know those as well."

The sharp sound of Lupin's snort startled Narcissa enough to make her drop her tea again, and she did. With a weak smile, she reconstructed the cup herself and gazed demurely at the ground. Just like at school, she could never look directly at him.

"Ah," Dumbledore said smoothly. "The location of Miss Weasley would be very helpful, Narcissa. I can't stress enough that this is very important and you will be doing something very noble by revealing this to us."

Narcissa licked her lips and looked Dumbledore in the eye. "He Who Must Not Be Named is holding Mademoiselle Weasley at his secure hiding place in Mordred's Fortress, Albus. I am certain of this."

Albus looked at her sharply. "Are you sure, Narcissa?"

"Yes," she whispered, dropping her gaze again.

Remus frowned. "That's how that bastard kept off our radars. He'd being cloaked by dark magic."

"Indeed, Remus, it seems he is," the headmaster said gravely. "Narcissa, how did you come across this information?"

Visions of the little boy's blood, his broken body, Lucius' ranting, the boy dying, and the maniacal laughter of Lucius after he devised a way to capture the young girl flashed in her head. Narcissa swayed and caught herself on the arm of the chair. She had come accustomed to the blood, the poor, Muggle boys, and the death, but it hit her hard when she came close to telling someone. She had only tried it once, but Lucius had caught and beaten her.

"Albus, I would rather not say," Narcissa said quietly after a moment.

"Then how are we supposed to believe it?" Remus spat maliciously.

Narcissa held back a sob and cursed herself again for being so weak. Her hand went to her stomach, and she tried to calm herself.

"Narcissa," the headmaster said. Narcissa looked up at him with glistening eyes. "How did you find out? We must know if your information is viable."

Narcissa swallowed hard, doing her best to compose herself. Her bottom lip trembling, she looked first at Dumbledore, then an angry Remus Lupin, and shuddered. "Lucius… he has...urges." She took a deep breath and unsuccessfully tried to compose herself again. "When he is underr lots of stress, he – he sends for little boys. He is a very violent man, Albus. He is a very evil man, too. He rants and raves, sometimes revealing secrets. Secrets about He Who Must Not Be Named, about his Death Eaters, and now about Mademoiselle Weasley. He – he spoke of coming to Hogwarts last night, and capturing Mademoiselle Weasley. I am too late, am I not?"

Dumbledore, who was looking at her with deep sympathy, nodded, and tears ran down Narcissa's face, her jaw trembling violently. "I am so sorry, Albus! If I only had come sooner!"

Dumbledore offered her a handkerchief, and she took it, wiping her eyes as she continued in broken English. "_Ce petit garçon_. He died in my arms. I tried _pour épargner_ him. That poor _garçon_!"

"Narcissa," Dumbledore said kindly, waiting for her to finish her episode. Narcissa hated and loved him for that. But she hated herself more. She'd been weak for so long. She'd not stood up for Draco as she should have. She had not saved all those little boys that Lucius brutalized as she should have. She had not had any backbone all those years ago to refuse Lucius as she should have.

"Narcissa," Dumbledore repeated softly. Narcissa was reduced to little sniffs and occasional dabs at her eyes with the lacy handkerchief. She couldn't bear to look anyone in the eye just then.

"You haven't done anything wrong, Narcissa," Dumbledore continued. "Listen to me, my dear girl; you couldn't have stopped him. Not what he did to you or your son or any of those boys. You did only what you could. You have freed yourself of him already by coming here."

Narcissa looked at him then. Beneath all her fears and doubts, she felt Dumbledore told the truth. It couldn't erase all the grief, but it helped ease it. She glanced back down at her hands and tried to still them.

"We'll get that bastard, Narcissa."

It wasn't Dumbledore. It was Remus. She looked at him sharply. Perceiving that his eyes wouldn't betray her, for they seemed so good and honest, she nodded, licking her lips nervously.

"You can't go back home, can you, Narcissa?" Dumbledore asked kindly, his blue eyes deepening with concern.

"No," Narcissa whispered. "He would kill me. I – I fear for all those children, though."

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, I do, too. Narcissa, would you do me a favor? Please, for an old man."

"Yes," Narcissa answered automatically. "Anything, Albus."

"Stay here, Narcissa," he said kindly, gesturing around him. "Stay at Hogwarts. We can protect you here; you could even see your son."

Narcissa looked at the headmaster apprehensively. "I would not want to intrude, Albus. My adopted parents, they might take me back."

"Perhaps you could help with Quidditch practices," Dumbledore pressed, not skipping a beat. "I know some Seekers who would appreciate the advice of a former Quidditch player."

"Albus," she protested again.

"I was thinking about starting an Old Ways curriculum. It has been a long time since we've had a witch as proficient as you in the Elements and the Old Ways."

She bit her lip. "I suppose..." Then she laughed weakly. "It is better than living with my sister."

Dumbledore smiled and rose from his seat, taking Narcissa's fine hands as she stood with him. "A room in one of the towers, I think. With windows and perhaps a balcony. What do you think, Narcissa?"

"Maybe nothing that extravagant..." But she trailed off when she saw the hope in Dumbledore's eyes. "Yes. Yes, Albus, that would be wonderful."

Dumbledore smiled and would have said something if it weren't for the brief knock on the door and then the clouds of black, billowing robes following Severus Snape. "Albus, we have a bit of a situation –"

He stopped when he gathered in the scene around him. He frowned at Lupin but bowed slightly to Narcissa. "Mrs. Malfoy, how are you?"

Narcissa merely nodded her head, extended her hand, and said softly, "I'm tolerable. And how are you, Severus?"

He took her hand and kissed it lightly. "Lovely," he said in a slightly less cold voice than that with which he spoke to other people. "But I fear the pleasantries must be spared; I have an urgent need to speak to the headmaster."

"That is fine," Narcissa replied. Then she turned shyly to the headmaster. "I am sure that I can find my way, Albus."

She wasn't sure, but she thought a brief smile touched his face before he said, "I would hate to leave you alone in the castle, Narcissa. I'm sure Remus would be happy to escort you to Rowena's Tower, wouldn't you, Remus?"

Lupin shot a look at the smirking Snape and then nodded stiffly at the headmaster. "I'll be back."

"Thank you, Albus," Narcissa said softly, "for everything. I really don't know what I would do without you."

"Think nothing of it, Narcissa," Dumbledore said politely, yet dismissively.

"Severus," Narcissa said, bowing her head at Snape before grabbing her cloak and following Lupin's angry footsteps down the stairs and through the halls.

She put on her white cloak and looked around her, her own footsteps falling behind Lupin's fast ones. She sighed and quickened her pace. She had rather wanted to look at the castle. But she figured she would have enough time later, so she followed Lupin closely.

Once they had walked up a few more flights of stairs and entered the Ravenclaw portion of the castle, Narcissa felt as though she were almost right at home. She smiled at the portraits, nodding at some that knew her. Up another flight of stairs and they stopped. The door was made of white wood with blue locks and designs on it.

"This is it," Lupin said gruffly, staring at her with hard eyes once more.

He had changed so much from school. She could still remember the quiet boy who followed her mercilessly down the corridors, claiming to protect her from evils in the hall. She could still remember his free laugh and bright, moony eyes. He had a forceful side too, though, his Gryffindor side, what made him one of Godric's chosen. He had always been persistent, never embarrassed, never rude.

Not like he was now. But what could Narcissa expect? The first betrayal must have been his parents. They were never supportive of him or his disease. The second must have been her. She couldn't help her debt though. Then Pettigrew, of course; his killing Lily and James like that must have been a powerful blow. And after, Black had died, an innocent man by the story her husband often gloated about. Black must have been the biggest blow. He had been Lupin's last living friend, besides Pettigrew, and that traitorous monster couldn't count. Bellatrix had killed Lupin's last friend, his last link.

He had right to be bitter, to be hate-filled, especially towards Narcissa. It had been Narcissa's own adopted sister who had done it. Narcissa had never fit in with either of her sisters. Andromeda had always been the wild one, the one with morals. She'd been a Gryffindor, a huge offence in the house of Black. Then Bellatrix had been the perfect, vicious child, sorted into Slytherin with no doubts of her loyalties. Narcissa knew Bellatrix was going to be a Death Eater ever since she knew what they were. Narcissa knew Bellatrix had been evil since the first day she'd met her. Right after Narcissa had been adopted, when she was about six, she had met her sisters. Andromeda was wild; Bellatrix was dangerous; Narcissa became the subservient one, the one who did what she was told. She had been accepted because of this, despite being sorted into Ravenclaw.

She always hated having to be the fake normal. She longed to be like Andromeda but was stuck being a Bellatrix copycat. She hated it. She just wanted to be Narcissa for once, a child of Wind and a daughter of the Elements.

Narcissa nodded, and Lupin turned, ready to walk to Dumbledore's office again. Narcissa couldn't fathom what encouraged her to do what she did next. It seemed as though she was infused with some bravery. She put a soft hand on Lupin's forearm and said quietly, "Remus..."

He turned sharply, and Narcissa immediately withdrew her hand, the feeling of bravery flying away to wherever it came from. "Yes?" he questioned in a gravelly voice.

Narcissa backed away a step. "It was nothing – foolish really..."

Lupin frowned, cocking his head and lowering his eyebrows. "No. What were you going to say, Narcissa? Can't you even talk anymore? Hmm? Cat got your tongue? You going to run and hide behind Malfoy again?"

"No," Narcissa whispered, hating her cowardice again.

"Well then, what were you going to say? It can't be that hard," Remus said, attacking again as he had during her seventh year. "Gods! You haven't changed at all, have you, Narcissa? You still can't stand up for yourself! It's pathetic! Just say what you wanted to say."

Tears were building in Narcissa's eyes as she backed away, fumbling for the handle of the door, trying to find an escape.

"Running again, I see," Lupin said sharply. "You always were good for nothing."

"No," Narcissa said, the tears threatening to fall.

"So just say it, Narcissa! Just say what you wanted to say!"

The door clicked open, but Narcissa didn't enter. She stopped dead. He was right. She wasn't good for anything. She always ran away, even if it was into the arms of a heartless heathen. She was pathetic, and she couldn't stand up for herself. She hadn't changed at all. She couldn't even protect her son.

Narcissa turned to Lupin, meeting his angry eyes with apprehension. She licked her lips nervously. "I was wondering...if you wanted to come in for some tea, Remus."

This stopped him. His eyes changed slightly, as if they were calculating her again. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he nodded solemnly. "Yes, Narcissa. That would be nice."

She allowed herself a brief smile before walking into the room. It lit automatically. In the antechamber, the walls were a tasteful combination of blue, silver, white, and lighter blue. A steady fire roared, and artful landscapes and portraits decorated the walls, one of the sleeping Lady Rowena Ravenclaw herself. To Narcissa's surprise (though, upon reflection, it shouldn't have been), there was a table with three chairs and tea set for two, steam still coming off the pot.

Narcissa looked at Lupin, and he gave her the same look. Yes, it was a little creepy that Dumbledore knew literally everything.

So they sat. Narcissa gracefully poured herself and Lupin a cup each, smiled shyly as she handed the cup to him, and he brushed her fingers lightly. He took a sip. They sat in silence, Narcissa still afraid to speak, and Lupin too afraid to break the peace.

But finally, Lupin sighed and set down his tea. "You never answered me, Narcissa," he said calmly, his voice free from the bark that intimidated her.

But she stared at him questioningly, not understanding what he was talking about.

Lupin sighed again, looking her firmly in the eye. "I know you remember the question, Narcissa. After all, it wasn't that long ago. I've waited nearly seventeen years for the answer. Why, Narcissa? Why did you do it?"

Narcissa swallowed, knowing exactly what he meant. "I couldn't let him die, Remus. Not even if I hated him. And I did; I still do."

"Then why?" He sighed, looking away angrily. "Why did you have to go and marry the bastard?"

Narcissa smiled wanly. "I carried his son, Remus. The Imperius is a powerful spell; he only needed me under it for a few minutes while he had his way with me…"

"That bastard," Remus growled, clenching his wand hand. "You should have told someone, Narcissa. You should have told me!"

Narcissa nodded her head in defeat. "Yes, I should have. I was scared, Remus. I still am. I was never as strong as you or James or Sirius. I know...I know you wanted me to be like Lily, but I wasn't like her, Remus."

Lupin reached over and captured her hand, caressing the knuckles lovingly. "I would have protected you, Narcissa. I would have killed him if you asked it of me."

"I wouldn't have," Narcissa said calmly. "Remus..."

She smiled tiredly, standing and taking off her white cloak to pull out her jewel. His eyes widened as he looked at it, reverberating with magic from its silver chain. He stood, cupping her hands around the jewel.

"You kept it."

"Yes," came her answer.

* * *

_Windows to the Soul_

Harry frowned, glancing around the common room. Once again, she wasn't there. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen Ginny all day long. She usually sat next to Colin and Dean at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But for some reason, she hadn't been present at any of these meals. Harry had become accustomed to watching her carefully at her meals. Every once in a while, he would check on her, keeping his tabs updated.

But now he hadn't seen her since dinner yesterday, and he was slightly worried. He looked around the common room once more for good measure and then gave up. He would ask Colin and Dean, and then, after she got back from tutoring the first and second years students who needed help in Charms, he would ask Hermione to look in Ginny's room.

"Harry," someone said from beside him. Colin had sat down on the couch, Dean standing next to him solemnly. "Harry, have you seen Ginny today? Because we can't find her."

"We haven't seen her since dinner yesterday," Dean admitted. "We were wondering if she was at the nurse's office and had told you or Ron or even Hermione."

Harry studied them. "I was actually about to ask you two the same thing."

Colin looked at Dean, and Dean nodded. Colin sighed. "Okay, Harry, you have to keep this a secret, especially from Ron. He'd crucify us...like twice or something if he found out."

"She didn't want us to tell anyone because, well, because she thought Ron would kill someone," Dean said.

Harry nodded, waiting for them to continue.

"Ginny is seeing Malfoy," Colin whispered quietly.

"I know," Harry replied.

Colin frowned doubtfully, glancing up at Dean and then back at Harry. "Ya – you do?"

"Yeah, I sort of saw them snogging in the halls the first day back from summer break," Harry admitted. "I knew something like this would happen. I hate to say it, but we've got to confront Malfoy. If he doesn't know where she is, then we're going to have to report it to Dumbledore."

"We just can't tell Ron," Colin said surreptitiously.

"Tell me what?" said Ron in a good-natured voice, plopping down on the couch and taking a bite of an apple.

"Aw, shit," Dean said under his breath.

Colin laughed nervously and scratched the back of his neck. "Well, you see, it's kind of a funny –"

"Hermione caught cold and is in the infirmary," Harry said quickly. "She didn't want me to tell you because she didn't want you fawning over her and stuff."

Ron frowned. "Okay. I should probably go see her anyway."

"Yeah, probably," Colin said. "You know women, always saying they don't want something when they really do, hehehe…"

"Yeah," Ron said, looking at Colin oddly. "See you all around."

He left the common room, and Harry sighed, relieved he didn't have to tell Ron right then and there.

"Nice going, Col," Dean snorted and cuffed him over the head. "Come on, I know the way," he continued, walking towards the portrait.

"How do you know the way?" Colin asked suspiciously.

Dean blushed and just kept walking. Harry looked like he wanted to ask something, thought about it for a moment, then shook his head and followed. Dean led them down the dark passages and hallways, climbing down the stairs quietly. It wasn't strictly time to be in their common rooms, but Filch would still hand them a detention if he thought they were up to no good…like walking, or breathing oxygen, or talking, or living.

Then Harry heard it, the familiar thwack sound of flesh hitting flesh in a none-too-friendly manner. Harry rounded the corner quickly and saw why he heard the violent noise. Malfoy had Blaise Zabini pinned against the wall by his neck and appeared to have just broken his nose.

"I'll ask you again, you fucking pansy. Where's Ginny?" Draco growled viciously. He looked ready to kill, his malicious gray eyes ripping into Blaise and his hand tightening ever so slightly on his neck. Blaise just made strangled, gurgling sounds.

"Blaise!" Dean shouted angrily as he ran towards them.

Malfoy turned and sneered, his eyes glinting around until they met Harry's. "Potter," he growled in a deadly, low voice. He let go of Blaise, who promptly fell to the ground and gasped for breath. Malfoy walked right past the worried Dean, his eyes still set on Harry.

"Tell me where she is, Potter," Malfoy snarled dangerously. "What have you done with Ginny?"

Harry crossed his arms and stared down Malfoy. "What have _I _done with her? What have _you _done with her? We haven't seen her since last night. It isn't a secret to some people that she spends her nights with you, Malfoy. Gods know why..."

Malfoy sneered, bringing his face close to Harry's and glaring mightily at him. Then he slammed his fist on the stone wall and said in a deceptively cool voice, "Don't play games with me, Potter. I _am _the game. Tell me where Ginny is…_NOW_!"

Harry snorted. "The fact of the matter is we don't know. You're the last person she talked to. So you're the person who should know, Malfoy. What have _you_ done with her?"

Harry wasn't expecting it, so naturally he wasn't able to dodge. He had to give Malfoy some credit; he did know how to punch. He wondered vaguely if Ginny had taught him, or if he had actually taught Ginny. Whoever taught who, the punch was good enough to knock him backwards and make him swear like Ron. Before he knew it, he was pinned against the wall, just as Blaise had been, and he was punched twice more.

"I won't ask you again, Potter," Draco said softly. "Tell me."

Harry was thankful Colin, Dean, and Blaise were there to pull Malfoy off him, because it certainly took all three of them. Malfoy was insane, stark raving mad. He fought against the three people holding him down, throwing nasty curses at Colin when he grabbed Malfoy's wand away from him.

Wiping the blood off his nose, Harry stood slowly. If he'd had any less control, he might have hit Malfoy while he was held back. But Harry couldn't hit a man like that; he looked pathetic in a weird sort of way. It was clear to Harry that Malfoy didn't have anything to do with Ginny's disappearance. This was obviously a man driven mad with sorrow and grief.

Harry sighed, sniffing the excess blood into his nose before frowning at Malfoy. "Get a hold of yourself, Malfoy. We don't have her. If we did, we'd tell you. Now stop acting like a child and pull yourself together."

Malfoy fought on for a moment and then stopped completely, falling to his knees and hanging his head. He was muttering things, something like "should have told her" and "could have saved her." Harry frowned and signaled for Colin, Blaise, and Dean to let Malfoy go.

"Potter," Malfoy said quietly, looking up at him through shaded eyes, "you have no reason to believe me, and you have no reason to trust me. The only way I can ask you this is as a man who loves Ginny Weasley. You need to believe what I say is the truth. It is the only way we are going to get Ginny back."

Malfoy looked Harry in the eye. His face was sincere, his words sounded sincere, and his eyes spoke the truth. Harry vaguely remembered the proverb, "The eyes are the windows to the soul." Harry noted how Dean, Colin, and Blaise stayed silent. They had accepted Harry as their leader, as the person who would make the decision. Harry looked at Malfoy hard and then said softly, "Do you love her, Malfoy?"

Malfoy stared at him for a moment. "More than anything."

"Then I believe you," Harry said calmly.

Malfoy sighed; he stood, brushing off his slacks and not looking the least bit sorry for the bit of mayhem he'd caused. "Then listen to me, Potter. Ginny is in a lot of danger right now, a lot of danger. I have reason to believe Lucius has her. Perhaps even Lucius' master."

"Lucius?" Harry said.

"My father, for lack of a better word," Malfoy said dryly, sneering ever so slightly.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I know who he is."

"Good, the rest of the explanation will go much easier," Malfoy quipped. "You see, I was commanded by my master to capture the Elemental at Hogwarts and bring her to him for his...for his pleasure."

"What's an Elemental?" Harry asked.

Malfoy frowned. "I thought she would tell at least you, Potter."

"Blaise, Dean, and I know," Colin said quietly.

Malfoy just nodded and looked at Harry. "An Elemental is a human born of the Elements: Wind, Fire, Water, Wood, Metal, Lightning, Earth, etc. Ginny is a very special type of Elemental, a Hybrid Wind/Fire born of a human, her mother obviously. If she trained herself, she could command Fire and Wind. She has a low level of competence right now, but it is better than mine."

"You're an Elemental too?" Harry asked.

"Half," Draco explained. "My mother is a Wind Elemental. I'm not very competent, but I can feel the magic better than normal people. Anyway, as I was saying, he wanted an Elemental to bear his heir, and he wanted Ginny to do it."

"I know," Harry said. Malfoy looked at him questioningly. "I have a sort of connection with Voldemort, and I sometimes dream what he sees."

Malfoy snorted. "Figures. Ginny always said you dreamed strong. I should have put that together. At any rate," he said before Harry could question it, "he wanted me to get her." Malfoy snorted again. "So the bastard started training me; that's where I went. You all were right; it was a Death Eater training camp. Little did the bastard know I was gathering proof and recording information all summer long, thanks to some help from a little thing I like to call the Voice Recorder." He smirked and brought out a large, silver medallion from the front of his shirt. A glint of red-gold caught Harry's eye before Malfoy stuffed the medallion down his shirt again.

"So when I got back to school, I told Dumbledore everything and asked to be a spy for him. He accepted. I wanted to tell Ginny...believe me, I wanted to tell Ginny. But then I would have to tell her about what happened over summer. How could she accept a killer for...for anything, even a friend? Because, Potter, if you think you can survive a summer among Death Eaters without killing someone, you're wrong. Dead wrong."

Harry frowned. "So why didn't you just explain it to her? You know, rationally."

Malfoy glared at Harry. "Imagine that you killed over fifty people, Potter. Imagine that some of them were defenseless Muggles, some of them were common wizards, some of them were your age. Now imagine having to tell Ginny you did that. Imagine telling her you had to kill the people your father and his friends only halfway killed. How do you start a conversation like that? 'Hello, I killed countless people this summer. How was your vacation, love?' I think not, Potter."

"Point taken," Harry said dully. "So why'd she bolt?"

"I can only imagine that she had a dream which revealed it to her, but from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's perspective – one of your dreams."

"She's a Dreamweaver, Harry," Colin said calmly. "She receives people's dreams and stuff. She inherited it from her mother."

Harry looked apprehensive, then nodded. "I think I know what dream she saw then. The one last night, Voldemort learned Ginny's name and told your father –"

"I'd appreciate if you didn't refer to him as such."

"– to go and get her immediately. No wonder she bolted."

There was a profound silence in which everyone thought. But unfortunately, it was broken in a rather unwelcome fashion. For the one person no one really wanted to be busted by just happened to round the corner, his billowing, black coat trailing behind him.

"What have we here?" Severus Snape said in a cool and controlled voice. If Harry hadn't known him for so long, he wouldn't have been able to pick up the note of joy in his voice as he commanded them to his study to wait punishment.

* * *

ºSamson's Powers - reference to the Biblical Samson whose power source was his hair; Delilah, his mistress, sold him out…

ºCaesar and Brutus, Jesus and Judas - reference to Caesar's betrayer and nephew, Brutus, and Jesus' betrayer and disciple, Judas


	12. The Curtains Rise

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER TWELVE:**

**The Curtains Rise**

* * *

_Allowances for a Hero_

Draco paced the study of his mentor and head of house nervously. Zabini, the Creevey boy, Thomas, and Potter were talking quietly in the corner. He paused to sneer at them before going back to his pacing. He was barely able to keep a sound thought in his head, and all ability to do so was completely lost when Snape and the headmaster walked in.

Snape wore a frown befitting his glorious personality, and the headmaster grinned like a six-year-old in a candy shop. It always made Draco wonder about the two. Dumbledore was obviously a father figure to Snape, perhaps the closest thing he had to a friend. And yet they were so different. Draco couldn't bring himself to believe Snape secretly hated Dumbledore. No one hated Dumbledore, secretly or not so secretly…unless you were like Voldemort or something… They were just so opposite it was scary.

On the one hand, Dumbledore was perhaps the most powerful man in the world, and he acted as though he was still a child some of the time. He was bright, a literal ray of sunshine. And then there was Snape, bleak and dark as a wintry, stormy day. He was ill-tempered and disliked by almost every person with whom he ever came into contact. It was an odd pairing, to be sure. But somehow, in the grand scheme of the universe, it worked pretty well.

"Ah, my young students," the headmaster said with uttermost sincerity and calmness. "I see you have found yourselves a bit of trouble in which to stir yourselves up. According to Snape, you should all receive some sort of punishment. I believe a sufficient punishment should be to give you knowledge."

Snape cast a dry look at the headmaster and seemed to desperately want to roll his eyes at something. He settled for bringing Dumbledore some tea.

Dumbledore sat behind Snape's dark, oak desk, and Snape stood in the shadows behind him. After a draft of tea, the headmaster looked up at the wide-eyed students, and he motioned for them to sit. Draco did his best to ostracize himself from the rest of them. He had to sit next to Potter. This would be harder than he originally thought.

"Miss Weasley," the headmaster continued, "has been kidnapped by Lord Voldemort."

A million shouted questions fired at once. Draco assumed it was because the Gryffindors were worried and needed to make as much noise as possible to show that they were worried. He and Zabini stayed silent and watched. After the questions ended and the Creevey-boy, Potter, and Thomas looked as though they were done, Dumbledore smiled again, a small twinkle in his eyes as they flashed briefly on Draco.

"Good," the headmaster said quietly as the noise died. "A woman, at considerable danger to herself, has come forward offering information leading to the whereabouts of Miss Weasley. Last night she came to me personally and revealed plans made by Voldemort for the capture of Miss Weasley. It just so happens that she has reason to worry about Miss Weasley and has offered her services to help with our mission."

"To save Ginny?" Potter asked in a low voice. Draco sneered and bit back a smart comment. "You have to let us help, Headmaster. Ginny would do the same for us. You have –"

"He doesn't have to let you do anything, Potter," Draco ground out, looking at Potter from under angry eyebrows. "Don't you think Voldemort would just love that? Snag the Golden Boy and have his friend sire his beastly brat. That would fulfill his wet dreams quite nicely, don't you think?"

Potter looked at him with angry, green eyes and snarled, "What can we do, just sit around?"

"You, Mr. Potter," Snape said, in a smoothly intimidating voice as he slunk from his shadows and wrapped his robes around him neatly, "need do nothing. I think it would be prudent to let professionals handle this little escapade."

Dumbledore made a coughing noise, and Snape settled back, a smirk touching the corners of his lips. Draco couldn't help a snort as he glanced again at the serious headmaster. "I fear, Harry," he said calmly, "any assistance from you would probably result in a larger issue than we need. Remus has already expressed his concerns about you, and both of us think you should pass on this one."

Potter closed his eyes for a moment, apparently thinking this over. "I want to help, Headmaster Dumbledore. There must be something I can do."

The headmaster frowned and gave the impression he was deep in thought. His brow was drawn tight in the expression of thoughtfulness, and his normally glittering eyes took on a sharper, deeper expression. He looked from Potter to Draco and then to Potter again. "There might be one thing you could do for us, Harry."

"Headmaster?" Snape said cautiously. He looked at Potter for a moment and frowned. "You can't mean…"

"Oh, no, nothing that drastic, Severus. Tell me, Harry," Dumbledore said, leaning across Snape's desk and looking over his moon-shaped glasses right at Potter, "how have you been dreaming?"

There was silence in the room for a moment. Draco was the first to put two and two together and smiled a small smile before looking at the headmaster. Dumbledore nodded at him.

"Molly Weasley," Snape said quietly. "She's still in Selene with Jeanette and the rest of the Sisterhood, Dumbledore. They can't be interrupted, not when they are so near to discovering the mole."

"Dorothea," Draco corrected. He and Snape shared a look before Snape nodded.

"Yes," Dumbledore affirmed.

"Sorry, did I miss something?" Potter asked as his eyebrows rose.

The headmaster sighed deeply. "I think it's about time for you all to go to bed. It's been a long night. Tomorrow, Harry, I want you to come here after breakfast. I have someone you need to meet. Mr. Malfoy, please join me for tea tomorrow. I have someone for you to meet as well."

Potter nodded, and Thomas, Zabini, and the Creevey-boy left quietly. Draco stood, holding eye contact with Snape for a moment and then following the examples of his peers. Snape would speak with him later.

Not ten minutes had passed before Snape stepped out of his study and beckoned for Draco to follow. He appeared solemn and a bit agitated. Draco sat in the chair before him, the tall, high-backed oak, noting the headmaster was nowhere to be seen. Snape sat across from him, dark eyes boring into Draco's.

"Malfoy," he said in a dark, slow voice, "do you know who has given us information about the location of Ms. Weasley?"

Draco shook his head.

Snape sighed and stood. "Follow me, please."

Draco stood and followed.

"Do you know what Mordred's Castle is?" Snape asked as he walked briskly down the dark halls, his billowing robes clouding behind him.

"Mordred's Castle is the enchanted castle that Mordred, the evil son of Arthur of Camelot, made his home. It is said to be one of the Seven Dark Places in Europe. Mordred protected the castle with his blood, pouring it into the very foundation; that is why it is so strong. I went there in early August. It is a disgusting place," Draco answered promptly, calling from the information he'd read in one of Ginny's texts. Ginny was surprisingly (or maybe not so surprisingly) aware of black magic. Though she was aware of white magic too.

Snape nodded sharply, turning a corner and walking up a flight of stairs. Draco followed. "Correct, Malfoy. Can you guess why I asked you this?"

Draco only paused a moment. "I know where it is, and you've never been there. No one has been there for a very long time, except for the Dark Lord and his closest Death Eaters. That is where Ginny is, isn't it?"

"Correct again, Malfoy."

Draco's eyes moved to slits, and he frowned slightly. "Professor, who told you where Ginny is? Who could know that?"

Snape only stopped in front of a blue and white door, the handle an ivory color. He looked sharply at the door and then Draco. "At midnight, two hours from now, a link from this room to your own will open through the fireplace. Filch won't be patrolling this corridor until one or two in the morning, and the other Ravenclaws are safely in bed two floors above you. I trust you are smart enough to realize what will happen if you let information in this room leak to other parts of the castle."

"Professor?"

But Snape was already walking away; his shoes clicked repetitively on the stone floors as he retreated into the dark. Draco frowned, staring at the door and then drawing his wand and stowing it in his sleeve for easy access. He rapped upon the door three times and waited.

It was only a moment before he heard steps on the opposite side of the door and the snap of the lock turning. Draco's eyes didn't deceive him. His mother stood tall and proud in the doorway, her platinum hair pulled back and her calm face curved in a genuine smile. She looked happier than Draco had seen her in years, perhaps ever. Her brilliant, crystal blue eyes shone with a certain confidence that made Draco almost proud.

"Mother," he said calmly, hoping his happiness was detectible.

Her smile broadened, and she opened her arms. "Come, Draco, give your mother a kiss."

Draco kissed his mother's cheek and let her lead him into the room. She was safe, safe from Lucius, safe from Voldemort, and safe from the Death Eaters. He knew they would kill her if they found out. When they found out. Lucius must know by know; she must already be hunted. But she was safe at Hogwarts…

Then it dawned on him. She must have been the one who told Dumbledore about Ginny. It made sense now; it was all coming together.

"I'm glad you're safe, Mother," he said quietly, taking his mother's hand and squeezing it.

* * *

_Because Sometimes It Hurts, Part III_

At first it was like trying to see through thick gauze. There were colors and lights, a bit of movement, or so she thought. There were also voices, muffled and dry, nothing comfortable. As her brain cleared, she became aware of an old smell, like unwashed linen and dust. Raising a heavy hand, she groaned and felt the crown of her head. There wasn't a bump, but it was sore. She rubbed her eyes and opened them again, her vision clearing. A light flickered in front of her, a large stone fireplace. She groaned again and forced herself into a sitting position.

The covers were heavy and old, she could tell, but there was something uncomforting about them. Looking around her, she found herself in a tower. The room was circular though large, and a window faced the moon, rising high in the sky. The stars seemed dulled, but that could have been the filthiness of the window. The stones in the room were old and dark, as if they themselves were evil. And there was something wicked about the place, something that made her skin crawl.

"Miss Weasley," a voice purred from the doorway.

Ginny jumped violently, and the fire roared in response to her distress. She could hear a low chuckle from that direction, and her fingers went instinctively to where she kept her wand. It wasn't there. Ginny bit her lip as the figure came closer; a sense of darkness so overwhelming it made her ill came from him. Ginny's eyes darted across the room frantically, searching for something to use as a weapon.

"Come now, Miss Weasley," the voice said again, calmly and seductively. It sounded so much like…

"Draco?" she said softly. Her heart was racing. It couldn't be Draco, could it? No, he was at school. She had left him at school, running out to the grounds. What had happened? She had been hit with some spell, something that had made her pass out, falling into the snow.

But the voice only chuckled again, and the figure moved into the light. She was close, but it wasn't Draco. The hair was the same, only longer. The face was the same, only more evil. The skin was the same, only a bit darker. It was close to Draco, and would have been were it not for the eyes. "Lucius Malfoy," Ginny hissed, finding herself pinned to the spot under his cold eyes.

"Awake so soon, Miss Weasley?" he said in a cool, court-trained voice. His movements were cat-like and held an archaic grace to them, an archaic but malevolent grace. His hands were open in mock concern, and his lips were twisted into something like a sneer. "I wouldn't have suspected you to wake until tomorrow at least. But since you are up," he continued, "perhaps some food and a bath would be in order."

"Perhaps an explanation would be in order," Ginny spat, her hands clenching the blankets angrily. "Or have you failed to notice you're holding me here against my will? Perhaps returning me to my school would be in order." She crossed her arms across her chest and glared at him mightily, her eyes daring him to contradict her.

All she received in return was a light, sadistic chuckle and a mocking smirk. "Come, come, Miss Weasley. Is this any way for a guest to treat a host? And the lord was so looking forward to meeting you. Don't make me wash and feed you forcefully, Miss Weasley; I assure you that you wouldn't enjoy it."

Ginny bit her tongue to keep from snapping back something smart. She wasn't intimidated; she was merely cautious. She didn't know where she was, she didn't have a wand, and she was probably surrounded by at least twenty armed Death Eaters and, by the sounds of it, Voldemort himself. She closed her eyes for a moment and relaxed. She could do this. They couldn't kill her yet. The longer she stayed alive, the longer she gave Dumbledore to save her.

When she opened her eyes, Malfoy was a lot closer to her than she remembered. She flinched and looked at him distrustfully. "I want my wand back, Malfoy," she said darkly, putting her hands on her hips.

He just laughed at her. "Follow me, Miss Weasley. Or have you failed to notice," he said, using her quick-tongued quip against her, "that you are in no position to be demanding things?"

Ginny gritted her teeth and stood; her legs were a bit wobbly. She held onto the bed frame for a moment, her head spinning. She felt as though she would pass out. Darkness surrounded her eyes; the light was fading again. A pair of cold, yet strong arms circled her around the waist, and sickness flowed over her. She looked up, tilting her drifting eyes past the broad chest she was propped against to the face of the man in whose arms she was. There was something in his eyes, something different. Ginny didn't understand it, neither did she like it.

"Let go of me," she said weakly. Her voice trembled, mostly out of anger, but partly out of fear.

"You're too weak to walk by yourself, Miss Weasley," Malfoy said smoothly, his voice still cold and his eyes still confused.

Ginny's head was clear now, and the darkness that came with her lightheadedness was all but gone. The wrongness of the situation hit her hard, and she pushed away from Malfoy with all her remaining strength. "Strong enough," she grunted.

But it appeared she wasn't, for Malfoy's arms stayed firmly around her, not even fazed by her weak attempt for release. He held her still against him, his cold eyes looking down on her with terrifying acuteness. Ginny glared at him in what she hoped was a fearless manner as his measured breaths hit her face.

Slowly, as if through water, he brought a hand to her face, his long fingers brushing a lock of blood-red hair that had fallen haphazardly into her eyes. He said nothing as he did it, merely looked into her eyes in a disinterested fashion.

"Let me go," Ginny said clearly, her eyes becoming angry.

Lucius Malfoy's gaze strayed to her cheeks, hair, and neck, resting on her lips. "You look and act so much like the Fire, Miss Weasley," he said softly; his cold eyes never left her lips. "And though you strain to be cold like the Wind, your attempts are dashed when the Wind only makes the Fire burn faster. You are a flame, an eternal gatherer of those in search of light." His lips danced downwards to hers; Ginny's eyes widened, and her heart beat faster. "You just don't realize that not all those you call look for light, only warmth." Malfoy's nose brushed against hers, and their lips met softly. "You are very warm, Miss Weasley."

He looked in her eyes once more, seeing the surprise and anger, and backed away, his face confused and dark. Ginny could see his breath coming quicker. Her eyes glanced towards the fire and saw it was burning with warning snaps and crackles. She looked back at him and saw he had placed his mask of coldness back on and his eyes were as hard as silvery diamonds.

"Follow me, Miss Weasley," he said in a quiet, harsh voice.

Ginny followed. When he left her in the room, a warm bath drawn magically, she scrubbed her skin until it was raw and in some places bleeding. When she rose from the porcelain bathtub, she could see the pink-tainted water, and she almost puked. Instead she put on a pair of plain, black, form-fitting robes and waited for her hair to dry.

* * *

_The Rules for Making Friends, Part II_

Percy glanced down at his gold pocket watch in a bored manner, flipped it up quickly, and stuck it in the right pocket of his black, formal robes. Fifteen minutes late. How did people go around being fifteen minutes late? Wasn't it some sort of unspoken rule that you arrived five to ten minutes early when meeting someone somewhere? Wasn't there some sort of social code? And when exactly was it that men stopped picking women up for dates?

Twenty minutes late. Where was she? Had she no sense of timing? She was supposed to be meeting him to gather information, wasn't she?

"Percy, darling!" the flamboyant voice of Marissa Mariner called to him. She was wearing a sea-green pair of skimpy robes, her sea-colored stiletto heels clicking loudly on the pavement. She wore a silver pin in her hair with emeralds enough to buy food to feed a large Korean village for a year. Percy could only shake his head and offer her his arm. She took it gladly, smiling her white smile at him as he rolled his eyes.

"What's the matter, Perce?" she pouted, blue eyes widening as she looked up at him through long, dark eyelashes.

"Have you any sense of timing, madam?" he asked; his voice rose an octave unintentionally.

"Have you any sense of style?" she quipped, raising a dark eyebrow at him. "Really, who comes early to a party anyway, Percy? Haven't you ever heard of being fashionably late?"

"Haven't you ever heard of being dependable?" he countered. He helped her up the stairs of Gringotts to his personal Floo fireplace.

"Haven't you ever heard of never answering a question with a question?" she asked with a toss of her head as he opened the door for her. She stepped in, Percy following her closely.

"Hypocrite," he retorted.

"What are you going to do about it?" Marissa replied with an air of supremacy as she gathered the pot that held the Floo powder from Percy's mantle.

"You never get tired of squabbling, do you, Ms. Mariner?" he asked tiredly, wiping his brow with a white, gold-embroidered handkerchief.

"That's another question." She sighed, looked straight at him, and set down the pot of Floo. She frowned for a moment, straightening his suit and dusting off a bit of perhaps invisible dust. "Now, Percy," she said quietly, "tonight is going to be particularly dangerous." She looked toward the door, pulled out a scroll of parchment and gave it to him.

He took it carefully. "Marissa," he read aloud. He looked at her, and she nodded, signaling for him to carry on. "I require your services tonight at my estate in the south of France. My servants will await you and Mr. Weasley, your newest plaything, at Jean-Baptiste-Pierre Colombain's estate. From that point, you will accompany Mr. Weasley to my estate, and we will continue the weeding process.

"The newest password is 'servitude in the dark,' but you will use the password 'Et tu Brute.' It will take you directly to me. Please let Mr. Weasley find his own way around for an hour. I'm sure our friends will love to meet him, as I do.

"With affection, your sister, Bella."

Percy finished; his eyes went over the parchment again, and they met Marissa's dark ones. "Bellatrix Lestrange," he stated.

"Yes," Marissa said, tossing the parchment into the fire. "Not by blood, mind you. She was what you would call a mentor for me when I was young."

"But you must have been no more than four or five," Percy said, his voice rising urgently.

"And two years ago, when she escaped, she came back to finish her training," Marissa spat. "The cow actually thought I still idolized her." Marissa rolled her eyes and then crossed her arms, looking up at Percy. "She is one of the reasons I'm as close to Voldemort as I am. She is his principal plaything nowadays, attending to his every whim and fancy. By convincing her, I convinced him without ever having to meet him; quite effective, if I do say so myself."

"So you've never met him?" Percy asked.

Marissa only snorted. "If I had, I'd be dead. I'm not so stupid as to rush into battle with the Dark Lord and think I'll escape scot-free like Golden Boy Potter. If I saw Voldemort, I would attack, but I'd never live." She looked sideways at him. "That was a stupid question, by the way."

Before Percy could speak, she went on. "Look, Perce, you're going to have to be careful tonight. They'll try goading you with your sister." Percy's face grew pink. "Stop! That's exactly what they'll want, Weasley! Don't be a prat about this; you know I'm telling the truth," she said when he glared mightily at her.

"Just listen," she continued. "The easy way is to pretend you are pleased with the fact that your sister could help the cause. Keep thinking about all the awful ways all of them are going to die when they get caught, when your cleverness sees them to the smallest cells of Azkaban, to wake in their own terror every morning, live in their own pain, and die in their own pathetic world. Keep thinking how all of them will never get to do anything like this ever again, how they will be caught forever. And whatever you do, _keep – your – cool_!" She enunciated every word with a poke in the chest.

Percy let out a deep breath, nodded, and cracked a few knuckles, a nasty habit he'd picked up in the office. Marissa was still looking at him, her dark blue eyes piercing him deeply. Percy felt a newfound respect for her. She was strong and well-trained, a master at the game in which he was such a first year. She was hard, selfless, cold, and composed – the antithesis of a Gryffindor. Marissa was born for the game, or maybe the game was born for her or just Slytherins in general. She was a marvel made of stone, and Percy respected her for it. He felt a pang of regret for all the things he'd thought about her when he didn't know her.

"Marissa," Percy said calmly, using for the first time her given name and putting an uneasy hand on her shoulder, "you would have made an excellent Gryffindor. I respect you; I just want you to know that."

Percy was almost sure he saw a tear glisten in her dark eyes. She smiled softly. "I suppose that was a compliment," she said with a teary chuckle. The smile on her face broke, and she became more serious. "I respect you too, Percy; I just want you to know that."

Their eyes met in mutual esteem for a long moment. Then Marissa nodded, her face becoming business-like. "Enough hanky-panky, Percy," she said lightly, taking a handful of Floo. "We have business to do. Remember your training, and all will be well. This is just like every other gathering we've gone to, only you just might die at this one."

"Lovely," he said dryly.

"Aw, kiss kiss, Perce," she said with a wink, flashing out of sight.

Percy stood still for a moment, reflecting back on what he'd said. Yes, he meant every bit of it. Marissa was a friend now, a real friend. Percy had very few real friends left. Two were dead; the other was his wife. Now he had Marissa; he supposed she would be a friend who would never leave his side. If he had to pick a person to be with in a room of blood-happy Death Eaters, it would be no one other than her.

Gathering an ample amount of Floo in his hand, he said, "Colombain's Estate," and was whisked off to Southern France. Marissa was waiting for him with her seductress's mask pinned properly on her face. Percy held out an arm for her, his face reverting to the snotty, I'm-better-than-you-and-I-know-it façade. He had become quite proficient at it over the past few months.

"Password," a small, demure Frenchman asked as Marissa and Percy entered a long corridor filled with hearths which stretched from the fireplace they had arrived through.

Percy tipped his head toward the small man. "Servitude in the dark, my good man," Percy said in an utterly pompous voice.

"Through zat fireplace," he replied in his accented tongue. "Numbair sefon."

Percy sneered and walked casually down the hall, his ears pricking enough to hear Marissa utter, "Et tu Brute," in her breathy voice. Percy walked serenely through the fire and found himself in the middle of a large, highly-populated room. All the wrong sort of people flowed easily in that room, faking pleasantries and feigning friendship. It was more a gala than a party, more elegant and higher-class than a party.

"Ah, Percy Weasley," a heavy voice said to his left.

Simulating happiness, Percy turned to the portly man, held out a hand – albeit an arrogant hand – and said loftily, "Morton! Glorious seeing you here! How is Chevron? I've not seen him since school."

Morton Siguard laughed heartily, shook Percy's hand, and then sighed. "I like to think life in the Magical Law Enforcement Department keeps Chevy busy. We're expecting a promotion to assistant director any month now, what with Isaiah in the condition he is."

"Oh, yes, how is old Stoffington?" Percy asked, his voice lowering with fake concern.

"Well," Siguard said, lowering his voice as well, as if he were divulging a juicy secret, "rumor has it his health is failing. He can barely lift a quill, the poor old dolt. His secretary claims he writes everything now and has for years. With his hundred and thirtieth birthday this January, who can tell what may happen…"

He let off with a sigh; then he straightened and clapped a hand on Percy's back. "But enough of Chevy, what of you? Where is your lovely escort, Marissa? I must say she makes these parties worth going to more than Monte over there. Never knows when to shut up, that Simmons boy."

Percy snorted. "Four years above me in school and I knew more about most everything than he did. He was always a disappointment."

Siguard laughed in unison with Percy, something Percy found rather upsetting. He played the game anyway. With company like this, he had no choice. Siguard's face contorted in something like amusement when he spoke again.

"So how is your dear wife, Petunia?" he said lightly. Percy could practically taste the threat laced into the words. Siguard was reminding him of his power over Percy, another thing Percy found unsettling about the crowd with which he ran.

"Penelope," Percy said proudly. "And big with child. Twin boys, strong wizards both. I already received the Hogwarts notice for both of them."

Percy let Siguard chew on that for a while. He knew he could say anything to Siguard, and no matter whom Siguard told, or what he said, no one would ever reach his wife. She was safer where she was than she could possibly be anywhere else. She was in her home, safely under the Fidelius Charm with a Secret-Keeper so loyal to the cause it hurt.

So while Siguard digested the information Percy left him, Percy continued. "I can't imagine what fatherhood will be like," he mused. "After all is said and done, I can only hope they will grow up in a time of relative peace and prosperity."

"Couldn't have said it better myself, Percy," Siguard said, smiling slyly. "Couldn't have said it any better." The smile grew. "And the rest of the family? Your parents? Your brothers? Your," a delicious pause, "sister?"

Percy caught onto the game. So Siguard was to be the person who tested his loyalty. The Whore's Guarantee had got him this far, and now he had to work his own magic, as it were. Percy felt the room go quiet; the loud, boisterous talking died down to whispers. A strange confidence fell over Percy, and he felt himself do something he would hate himself for afterwards.

A smile broke onto his face, one he'd seen before and never known he could imitate. "My sister…yes… I'm terribly proud of her. I never knew she had it in her. Though I should have suspected, after her first year at Hogwarts."

"I should say so," Siguard said after a while, his mind apparently made up about where Percy's loyalties lay.

The noise resumed, the inquisitor's assurance lifting the question off all the spectators' minds. Percy felt a wave of exhaustion pass over him, and he caught himself from sighing. He had passed the test, he was in, and now they would speak freely in his presence. No one would suspect the ambitious Weasley boy of anything other than wanting to get ahead and manipulating everyone to get there. On one level, he was proud of himself, conquering them as he did. But on another level, the Gryffindoric one, he was terribly ashamed. He was at their level now, and he might never get the chance to leave.

"Oh, Percy!" a sharp voice came from behind him. The automatic smile painted itself on Percy's face as he turned to the speaker. "Oh, Per-cy!"

"Marissa, love," Percy said quite loudly, kissing her cheek unceremoniously and chuckling as she blushed.

"Oh, Percy, such a kidder." Then her voice grew pouty, her lips pursing. "Percy," she said, pushing her chest out and looking at him invitingly, "I'm bored! I want to go shopping!"

Percy almost frowned. That was code for, "We've got to get the hell out of Dodge, if you know what I mean, because someone is about to start something we don't want any part of, so let's get moving, you prat."

"But Marissa, love," Percy said. "We just got here. What will be open at this hour?"

Code for, "What the hell is going on, you crazy bitch, and why wasn't I alerted of it sooner, because if you think I'm leaving now and blowing my cover, you're dead, bloody wrong."

"Not if we're in Russia, Percy," Marissa simpered. "I want the purple diamonds you promised me for Christmas."

Code for, "I'll tell you later, you pushy, little Gryffindor, so get your arse moving out of here. See that nice, little hostess? Beg off, you tart!"

"It's not Christmas yet, doll," Percy said. Marissa was on the verge of throwing a temper tantrum, and everyone knew it. He and Marissa were the center of attention at this point. "But," he said quickly, quelling Marissa's fake temper, "I suppose, if that's what you want."

Marissa smiled, and Percy thought he caught a bit of relief in that smile. Before he could say a word, the tweedy form of Jezebel Parkinson, the hostess of the gala, came up to them, her graying hair curled nicely upon her head.

"Oh, did I hear correctly, Marissa?" she said in a smaller, yet no less slimy voice than Siguard. "Will you be leaving so soon after you arrived?"

Marissa shrugged. "Percy and I don't spend enough time together as it is," she replied. "You all want to steal his attentions from me."

Jezebel Parkinson smiled in what was supposed to be a kind, knowing imitation of Percy's mother and said to them fondly, "Well, have fun, and do come over for tea on Monday, Marissa. We so miss your visits."

With that, Marissa and Percy were making their way to the fireplaces and safely to Gringotts. Percy looked at Marissa automatically and set his face in a frown. She leaned against the fireplace, breathing heavily; her head drooped.

"Marissa?" Percy asked.

Marissa looked at him with big, blue eyes. "I'm sorry, Percy," she said softly. "Your…your sister…"

Percy frowned slightly, crossing his arms. "What has happened, Marissa?"

She took a deep breath and then exhaled. "He has her, your sister. She was the girl they were all looking for."

Percy's face went blank, his blue eyes sparking dangerously in the firelight. Normally, Percy was able to control his anger. Normally, he was able to cool it to think clearly. But he was also a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors were not cool and controlled. Gryffindors were not serene in the face of danger. Gryffindors conquered. Gryffindors attacked. Gryffindors were loyal.

His hands clenched in fists of rage, a frown growing on his face as he stared at the fire. And then his wand snapped, and perhaps something in his eyes did too. "My sister has been kidnapped by Voldemort. Let us go, Miss Mariner; we must avenge this wrong."

Marissa's eyes went wide, and she latched onto his arm, surprised to find he was much stronger than he looked. "Oh, no! _Nononononononono! _ You aren't going anywhere with that attitude."

"I will kill him, Miss Mariner," Percy said with deadly calm. "Now kindly let me go; I shall not be long!"

"We need to go to Dumbledore, Perce," Marissa said. "And how do you expect to fight with no wand, no back-up, and no plan, hmm?"

He looked at her as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Why, I will kill them with my bare hands, Miss Mariner," he replied. "Now please step away from the Floo; I will be back before too long."

Then a smile broke onto his face, a smile Marissa had never seen before, not even on the face of her enemies. It was filled with confidence and power, and Marissa finally knew what it was to have ancient blood awakened. The Weasleys were an ancient house of witches and wizards; many fine men and women came from there. And every once in a while, a witch or wizard from a great house would have enough power or emotion to raise from their blood the powers of their elders, and they became nearly invincible. True, most never lived with the power in their blood for more than a half hour, but they were damn near unstoppable during those thirty minutes.

But then there were some, the wizarding world's equivalent to a berserker, and they were warriors. It was said that true Blood Berserkers could harness the powers of their ancestors and use it for hours at a time. The trait was said to be hereditary, though few witches and wizards had the gift nowadays. Arthur Weasley was one of the Blood Berserkers from the first war against Voldemort, and it seemed Percy would be too.

Marissa sadly drew her wand, knowing what she must do. "I'm sorry, Perce, really I am. But I can't let you do this; you'll thank me later." She locked eyes with him for a moment and saw his power before she had to look away. "_Petrificus Totalus_!"

He fell to the ground, hard as stone. Marissa let out a sigh of relief and raised her wand again. "_Mobilicorpus!_" Percy's body rose from the ground. "I'm sorry, Perce, but it was for your own good," she continued. "I think the headmaster will be quite pleased to know we have another Weasley Blood Berserker in the Ministry."

* * *

_A Pleasant Chat Among Old Friends_

Draco Malfoy drummed his fingers on the big, leather chair. The headmaster was just looking at him. Of course it was unnerving. The most powerful man on the planet was staring at him with his infinitely blue eyes and a wisp of a smile on his face as if they were old friends. It was odd, but what was Draco going to do about it, ask him to stop?

With a pop and fizzing sound, a head appeared in the fire; Snape, who was sitting in the corner, jumped a bit. It took Draco a moment, but he soon discovered it was the head of Alastor Moody. How could he forget the man that turned him into a ferret…or the face of the man that turned him into a ferret…or whatever. His scarred face and glowing, blue eye were slightly distorted by the flames, but there was no doubt the head of Mad-Eye was in the headmaster's office.

"Well, come in, Alastor," Dumbledore said amiably, making an inviting motion with his hand.

Moody merely snorted and rolled his good eye. "Right, like Dorothea would allow me to come to Britain. Do you have any idea how angry she is right now? It's a nightmare!"

And with that an object (Draco thought it was a knife of some kind) whooshed past Moody's head, which ducked at just the right time. "Damn it, woman! Calm down!"

At this point, Draco heard a loud, screaming sound he thought was a person but wasn't quite sure. They were speaking a different language, and yes, he recognized it as Russian. Moody answered in Russian, yelling right back; then he turned to Dumbledore. "Look, Albus, I'm sure it's important – gods know we need to talk about the Weasley girl – but unless you want Thea to break everything in your office, I suggest you let me try to calm her down."

"It's rather important, Alastor," Dumbledore said, frowning. "It can't be that bad."

Moody let out a burst of sharp laughter. "Remember that time you, Evangeline, Thea, and I were on a Hogsmeade weekend, you know, right after Thea transferred? Remember how we were eating and things started to spontaneously combust outside? It really hasn't changed. Only now, she likes to throw things."

Dumbledore frowned a little, his face thoughtful. "Certainly it isn't that bad anymore," he pressed. "Couldn't you drug her a little?"

It took most of Draco's willpower to not laugh right then and there, but he did shoot his Potions professor a look. This was quickly turning humorous. He forced his face into a mask of professionalism. He was, after all, Head Boy.

Moody seemed to be considering what the headmaster had just said, and Draco swore he could hear more yelling in Russian. This woman didn't seem happy at all; in fact, she sounded livid. Moody yelled right back, his face turning a little pink when she responded.

"Um," Moody said, his face still a pinkish color, "she says she'll come, but only if…" He trailed off for a bit then coughed. "That doesn't matter. Stand back; we're coming through. And, Albus…put away anything particularly valuable."

Draco watched, amused, as Dumbledore flicked his wand quickly. A few items disappeared altogether, whereas some just relocated themselves on the front of his desk. Many were breakable and shiny. Draco frowned but then understood. Dumbledore would rather her break those things, so he was making them easily accessible.

As Draco was about to ask a question, a woman wearing a dress of pale green appeared in the room via Floo. She was short, barely five feet tall. As far as her age, Draco couldn't tell. By Moody's comments before, she should have been as old as Dumbledore, but she looked not a day over forty…and a good forty, too. She had long, tightly curled, midnight hair; a big streak of white was all that gave hint to her age. Her face was smooth and young, but there were tiny lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes. And her eyes…well, her eyes were the most haunting part about her. They were very, very (very) angry.

"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore!" the woman said in a thunderous voice. "Do you mind telling me what the _HELL_ happened here? Ginevra is being cloaked! I can't reach her! All I can do is sense her presence! This is all your fault, you miserable old codger!"

Snape stood immediately, his face stony and obviously ready to defend his headmaster. But this woman would have nothing of it. She pointed a long finger at him and said sharply, "Severus Snape! You sit yourself right back down! I've not even started with you yet!"

She turned on Dumbledore again, who was sitting, smiling mildly at the strange woman. She picked up one of the particularly shiny glass figurines and tossed it up in her hand. "Do you mind terribly, Albus?"

"Please, be my guest, Dorothea," he said with a polite wave of his hand.

The figurine flew into an obviously offending wall, only to be followed by two or three other fragile objects. "Now you listen to me, Albus 'I-Know-Everything' Dumbledore! I'm furious as hell, and the Sisterhood couldn't possibly be more livid with me! _They_ are blaming _me _for Ginevra's disappearance, and now _I'm_ blaming_ you_!"

"Thea," a solid voice said from the fireplace. Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody had arrived in all his terrifying glory. "Please, this isn't helping anyone. Just sit down, and we will find a way to –"

"Don't you tell _me _to sit down,_ Alastor Moody_! I'm in _NO_ mood for your 'sit and talk' bollocks…"

As the green-clad woman continued her rant, Draco became increasingly aware of the silent conversation between his headmaster and Potions teacher. Dumbledore gave Snape a subtle nod, and a grimace came across Snape's face. But he procured a bottle, seemingly from nowhere, and held it for the headmaster's approval.

"…And on top of t_hat_, Alastor 'I'm-Worse-Than-Freaking-Dumbledore' Moody, half of it is your fault! What with your…"

Dumbledore shook his head, and the bottle disappeared. Snape polished off another vial and held it up for the headmaster. Dumbledore nodded this time, and Snape raised an eyebrow but took out a handkerchief and dabbed some of the liquid onto the cloth, a small frown on his face. He tucked the vial safely into his robes and rubbed the cloth on itself, standing surreptitiously.

"…even if I thought that you could –"

The woman was cut short from her rampage by Snape coming around behind her and holding the cloth over her nose for a short moment.

The woman stopped, her eyes glazing over and her hands going to her nose. Then, almost docilely, she sat herself in the chair across from the headmaster and smiled serenely. Draco thought she looked much prettier when she smiled. "Oh, Albus, it really is nice to get things off my chest like that. Oh my, I fear I may have overexerted myself. Have you any tea? Lemon or herbal, lemon if you have it."

"Sugar?" Dumbledore said pleasantly, securing a cup of tea and sugar square over it.

"One, please," she said, taking the cup from Dumbledore as the sugar fell to the bottom. She took a sip and smiled genially at Dumbledore.

Moody, however, let out a long breath and sank into a seat, making a face at Dumbledore, who just smiled. "I owe you one, Snape," Moody said in a cool voice. "Don't get all weepy on me though."

"Quite," was all Snape said in a cool, professional voice, sitting down after tossing the handkerchief into the flames.

"_Ooooh! _Is this_ the_ boy?" the woman in green said, her eyes big on Draco as if she just noticed him.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and said, "Yes, this is Draco Malfoy, Head Boy of Hogwarts, also captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, their Seeker, too. He's a very good lad, Dorothea. Mr. Malfoy, this is Dorothea Polinen, official representative of the Coven of Witches in Britain and High Priestess of the Dreamweavers."

"Nice to meet you, Madam Polinen," Draco said, albeit uncertainly, as he rose to his feet, took the hand of Dorothea and kissed it.

"Oh," she sighed, smiling at him graciously. "A nice Slytherin boy, it's been a while since I've met any of those. But look at him; he's so scrawny! Draco, dear, please put some more meat on those bones. Ginevra must be horrified!"

Draco, wincing a little at her jab, smiled casually and said, "That is what my mother tells me, Madam Polinen."

Dorothea smiled at him again, turning to Dumbledore once more. At this, Dumbledore continued, his voice calm but hard. "As you all know, Ginevra Weasley has been kidnapped. Currently, her mother, Molly Weasley –"

"Such a sweet woman," Dorothea sighed.

"– is on commission with the Coven to locate the whereabouts and doings of the Death Eaters and is indisposed. Her father is working subvert missions for me in the Ministry and cannot be uprooted as of yet. Her brother, Percy Weasley, is working on his sister's case alongside Marissa Mariner, his partner. And yet the only one who could give us the location of Miss Weasley was Mr. Malfoy's mother, Ms. Black.

"My job is to organize a rescue and quickly. The reason (and the only reason) Draco Malfoy will be assisting is because he is the only one with knowledge of Mordred's Fortress. As of yet, the only conscripts for this mission are he and Severus. Are there any takers?"

The room was only silent for a moment. Then a voice from the fireplace spoke. "A lovely speech, Headmaster. But do you mind terribly if we come in? Percy isn't feeling himself, and, well, I couldn't exactly take him home after last night."

A brief smile cut across Dumbledore's face. "Ah, Miss Mariner! Please! Please, join us."

Out of the fire, closely following a nearly catatonic red-haired Weasley, came one of the most beautiful women Draco had ever seen. She was no Ginny, but she had a different beauty than Ginny. She had Slytherin beauty. Immediately, Draco felt akin to her.

"Professor Snape," the young, blue-haired woman said, "nice to see you again. And, oh, Alastor! Kiss kiss! This must be Draco Malfoy," the woman continued, giving him a hard stare. "Hmn, look an awful lot like your father, don't you, D. M.?"

"Pardon?" Draco all but coughed. He could feel his eyes bulging. "Have we met?"

The woman laughed a rich laugh, her deep, blue eyes sparkling brightly. "Hardly. Though I have met your father on more than one occasion. I'm Marissa Mariner. And I take it back; you're far more handsome than ol' Lucius!"

"_Miss Mariner_," Snape said warningly.

Marissa sighed but calmed a moment. "Yes, Professor," she said in a completely submissive tone. Draco immediately wondered what was between those two. Then Marissa let out another sigh and said, "Look, I know this is a private meeting, but I couldn't put this through normal channels. There's always a chance the message could be received."

"Good girl," Moody said in a gruff, fatherly voice.

Marissa smiled at him adoringly. "And I'm sorry about Percy here. He's had a rough night. That and he's a Blood Berserker. Almost went off last night, had to knock him out with a pretty powerful charm to keep him from his rampage. It makes him dangerous. I think perhaps he'd be better in field work; he's too sensitive for undercover missions. Not that I don't love him to death, but Marcus and I worked together better. But I'm a bit off topic."

"Another Blood Berserker?" Moody said admiringly, looking over the Weasley boy. Draco wondered ferociously what a Blood Berserker was. "I suppose he would be better in the field. I will talk to Charlotte about that, Marissa."

Marissa nodded her thanks; then she turned to the headmaster. "I've got a bit more news for you, Headmaster. Um…can we speak freely here?"

Dumbledore nodded. "This is Dorothea Polinen, our Coven representative. She can be trusted."

"We've met," Marissa said shortly, sharing a glance with Dorothea. "As I was saying, his sister, Ginevra Weasley, has been captured by Voldemort. She is the one they were looking for."

"We know that already," Draco said with forced calm.

Marissa raised an eyebrow at him. "That makes the rest of my explanation easier then. I'll assume you know she's at Mordred's Fortress?" A nod from Dumbledore encouraged her to continue. "Well, I suppose all you'll want to know now is how many guards there are, where they are stationed, when their changing times are, why on earth Duncan Welsh is there, and who the new traitor to our cause is?"

"That would be helpful," Dumbledore said pleasantly.

Marissa smiled. "I know. Now, where do we begin?"


	13. Flint for a Fire

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN:**

**Flint for a Fire**

* * *

_Flint for a Fire, Part I_

They had given her a black robe to wear, nothing fancy. But somehow, looking at her form in the mirror, Ginny felt very naked. She knew where she was going; she was going to see Voldemort. _Riddle…_she hissed in her mind. She wouldn't even do him the favor of calling him Lord Voldemort. He would always be Riddle to her. Tom Marvolo Riddle, a pathetic and twisted sixteen-year-old boy with a fascination with death and blood.

She stood straighter, flipping her long hair over her shoulder and waiting for someone to come and fetch her. The bathroom she was in was antiquated and had a large bath. The mirror she stood in front of was monstrous, but Ginny couldn't think of anything but how she was going to get out of this. It seemed as though nothing and no one could save her now. She was in the heart of the enemy, literally and figuratively.

That made her shiver – she knew what was expected of her. She knew what plans the Dark Lord had for her. He was sick, distorted, and wrong. Ginny thought she would pass out at the thought of having to touch him, much less…well, become physical. She became ill at the thought of touching anyone but Draco in that way.

Ginny stopped herself. Draco wouldn't touch her anymore. He was…he was supposed to be dead to her. He _wasn't_ though. He was alive and burning into her soul. There was nothing she could do about it either. Every part of her wanted to reach out to him. Her mind told her heart, "No!" It was clear she had been betrayed. After all the trust she had…she had placed more trust in him than her whole family. She vouched for him in front of Blaise, Colin, and Dean. She protected his memory, never letting people speak badly of him. She'd loved him. But she'd assumed he loved her back, and that was where everything went terribly wrong.

She heard a knocking on the door, and she jumped slightly, her hand instinctively going to where she kept her wand. She cringed when she realized she didn't have it. But the defensive team living in her head reminded her that she had one last line of protection. Her Elemental powers had grown strong over the months. Strong enough to defeat Riddle? No, probably not. But maybe enough to escape.

Before she could think more on this, the person entered, and she thought she recognized him. He was tall and, truth be told, ugly. Ginny wasn't into judging people by appearances, but this was one ugly man. His face was familiar, though, almost…and then she realized who it was. The teeth were a dead giveaway.

"Flint…" she said under her breath. He didn't seem to notice though and just scowled at her.

"Weasley," he practically barked. "You are required in the throne room immediately."

She stiffened, bringing her shoulders back painfully and following him out the door. She would not be afraid… On second thought, she probably would; she just wouldn't show it. She followed him dutifully, trying to put on a mask of professionalism and coldness, but knowing she probably just looked angry. Angry was all right.

A bright, clinking sound – Ginny looked around to see what it was and saw a bright, golden-red coin on the floor. Flint had stopped dead a few feet in front of her. He wasn't turning. So Ginny knelt down and picked up the object, turning it over in her fingers.

She knew that medallion. Draco wore one just like it. Red-gold, with the crest of Gryffindor on it. She'd asked him about it…

* * *

_The Trouble with Memories, Part III_

Ginny lay on her back, eyes closed and legs crossed, left over right. Draco was kneeling at the end of his bed, half-naked and pale against his deep green covers and linens. Her foot was on his chest, and a smile was on his face. His long fingers ran over Ginny's foot, occasionally eliciting giggles and deep moans.

It was the best foot massage she had ever received. She sighed again as Draco kissed the arch of her foot, his fingers skimming over her calves and ankles. The chain he wore around his neck slipped, and two coins fell on his chest, one hitting Ginny's foot.

She looked at Draco, who smiled, flipping the necklace behind his neck again, the coins out of sight.

"Those are pretty," Ginny said lightly, leaning forward and reaching for his necklace. He let her, smiling a bit devilishly.

"They're _annoying_," he said, reaching for her hands and kissing them passionately, tongue flickering over her knuckles. "_You're_ pretty."

Ginny blushed as he leaned over her, causing her to fall on her back again as he straddled her legs. "Where'd you get them?"

He shrugged. "Dumbledore."

"Head Boy stuff?" she asked innocently.

Draco just kissed her neck, nipping lightly and then licking the spot to cool the hurt. Ginny hissed with pleasure, all thoughts of coins gone. She never saw them again.

* * *

_Flint for a Fire, Part II_

When her time in memories passed, she looked up to see Flint standing in front of her, his face impassive, a giant hand extended. Ginny met his eyes and found nothing of a hint in them. She looked at the coin again and then back in his eyes. Ginny noticed they were green, a very deep blue-green color. But she could sense something anxious about him.

"Is this yours?" Ginny asked quietly, almost hopefully.

The coin meant one of two things. It could mean he was a Death Eater, as she thought Draco might be, and that was why he had the coin. But it could mean he was loyal to the cause, as she used to think Draco was. Draco had told her he got the medallion from Dumbledore, and it did have Godric's own crest on it. Was it a sign that he was loyal to Dumbledore? Ginny also remembered that Draco had betrayed her and he wore one of these medallions. And yet it gave her hope that he was on her side. Why would someone loyal to Riddle wear anything with Godric's crest on it? Wasn't it sacrilegious or something? Wasn't Godric the antithesis of Riddle? Either way, she had much on which to think.

"Yes," he replied in a stony voice, but there was some underlying message Ginny didn't understand. She wished she were better at this game.

She licked her lips quickly and placed the golden-red coin in Flint's outstretched hand. "Sorry." He held it out for another moment, looking at her, not the medallion, and then stuffed it quickly in his pocket.

"Follow me," he said without another look her way.

So she did, keeping pace through the spiraling levels of stairs and long hallways. Just how far from Riddle was she? But soon she found herself outside two huge doors, and Flint was pushing them open, creaking and all.

As she walked in, she noticed three things. One, she was by no means alone with Riddle. There were several others in the room, seemingly just waiting around. She recognized Peter Pettigrew from pictures Sirius Black had shown her in her fourth year. She already knew Lucius Malfoy more than she ever wanted. There were three large men in the corner, near the feet of the Dark Lord as well.

Two, Ginny noticed was that the hall was unmistakably ugly. It was large and dull, graying, with no light and no decorations, just stony, gray-black bricks. The wide windows only let in the image of a cloudy sky, no trace of the sun or time of day.

Third was what her eyes last rested on, placed in the center of the room, sitting upon a high, graying dais, and had bright, gleaming, red eyes. The familiar, stunted nose and impeccable posture were the only things remaining of what had been a handsome sixteen-year-old wizard. The rest of his features were stretched and thin, especially his eyes and hands. Riddle's hands reminded Ginny of spiders, creeping and crawling maliciously. He seemed to smile at her when she stepped into the hall, a cold smile of freakish delight, not the warm one a guest would expect from a host.

Flint led her to the foot of the dais, leaving her alone in front of the Dark Lord and moving to the side of the dark, murky room. Ginny did her best to school the fear she felt out of her features, tried to mask her feelings. It did no good, but at least her knees weren't shaking and her body stayed still as a statue. She brought her chin up a bit defiantly at Riddle, as though daring him to make her bow. He only smiled.

"It has been a while, hasn't it, Little Ginny?" he asked in a cold, smooth voice, using his pet name for her. It was higher than Riddle's, more effeminate, but Ginny could recognize the similarities from the way he talked and looked when he spoke.

* * *

_The Source of Samson's Powers, Part IIº_

"Riddle," she said with an incline of her head, jutting her chin out a little more and straightening her posture, something she remembered she always did around him. It made her feel better, as if it showed him she wasn't even close to being beaten. "A delightfully long while."

He smirked at this, a sick smile pulling at his thin, white lips. "Yes," he murmured. "Too long. But," he said, his tone moving into a different level, "now you are here, and I must say, you are looking very beautiful, perhaps not the _Little_ Ginny I left."

Ginny stiffened. Her face faltered, and she looked down for a moment, trying to regain her composure and make the redness on her face die. She hated him. He always did this to her! Well, she wasn't going to fall for it! Not this time!

"Funny," Ginny said, tilting her head at a dangerously rebellious angle, "you've looked better, Riddle."

He merely smiled at her, raising a hand to his cheek and running it along his jaw. "Yes, finding a decent body has been a chore, especially after the first two were destroyed. This one is already wounded, but no matter, it shall be taken care of soon."

She swallowed, getting the sinking impression that the last statement had to do with Harry and his fantastically annoying ability to face danger and not get caught. Ginny had a feeling he might not survive this time. She took a few more shallow breaths and asked the question to which she already knew the horrifying answer.

"What do you want with me, Riddle? I'm not that valuable, not to your cause, not truly to Dumbledore's. Just let me go; I have enough problems without you spoiling my life again."

"You know the answer to that, Little Ginny," he answered smoothly.

Damn it! He saw through her bluff. She had hoped to catch him a bit off guard or at least to buy some time for her to make a plan. He just curled a pale hand around his chin and looked at her, blood-red eyes practically glowing.

"Your aura of power betrays you," he purred at her. He beckoned with a long-fingered hand. "Come."

"No," Ginny bit out defiantly. Her feet already wanted to move though, and she knew he was using Imperius on her. She hadn't even seen him use his wand. Maybe it had been on her for a while, and that was why. _Or maybe, _her subconscious reminded her,_ you want to go to him. Maybe he still has a hold on you. Maybe you want to be commanded by him._

"No…" she hissed, her jaw clenching. She swayed dangerously toward the man made of midnight, oblivious to his silent probing of her mind and emotions. Ginny felt her feet move, almost as if on autopilot, toward her old enemy. She didn't want it, but she was doing it anyway, as if driven by something older and more powerful than herself. Riddle sensed her unwillingness and laughed at her as she walked one wobbly step at a time toward him.

Ginny stopped a short half-meter from the Dark Lord, his command completed successfully. She swallowed hard, trying not to breathe so heavily; her eyes flitted around her, not wanting to rest on anyone, especially not him.

"Kneel," he said softly. His eyes connected with hers, and Ginny found she couldn't separate them. She didn't want to; she wouldn't submit to him, not again. Not _ever_ again. She stood defiantly, even making her chin tip dangerously upwards.

"_Never_," she whispered to him, her voice shaky, but stable.

"I don't wish to kill you, Little Ginny," he said in his soft, effeminate voice, the one that sent tiny shivers down Ginny's back and made her want to run. It was dangerous for her to rebel. All bowed before the Dark Lord.

All but Ginny.

"Funny," Ginny said in a low voice. "_I _wish to kill_ you_."

She watched his face change from a hard expression to an enraged, hellish vision. But Ginny had been prepared for this. She gathered what power she thought she could spare in her weakened state and formed a large blast of fire to send to Voldemort. She leapt off the dais, propelling her body with the help of the wind. She released the burning ball of Elemental fire directly at Voldemort, forcing it along harder and faster with the help of ribbons of wind, entwining with the fire.

It happened fast, and when she landed on the ground, she dashed out the door, pushing it open with the power of her wind and sprinting out the hall. She could only hear the sound of screaming; pain and agony rippling down the hall through which she ran. She turned and turned and ran and ran and sprinted and turned and climbed and ran and climbed and climbed and climbed.

Soon, she heard nothing behind her and slowed a bit, dashing to a large window and looking out; her breath caught when she saw what she did. She was high upon the battlements, the wind whipping around the tower in which she stood. It was a frosty white outside, the snow drowning the dark stone, making the already bleak castle almost unbearably plain and haunting.

That was when Ginny heard voices; they were soft, but they were growing louder. She looked around her and saw a few doors. Trying each in turn and finding none of them worked, she frantically waited the approaching voices. She could hear them; soon they would be upon her. After that…after that there was only down. She wouldn't be taken.

Especially not alive. She had no real reason to live anyway; her body was tired from the running and the amount of power she'd taken from her poor body. She was weary from whatever spell Malfoy, Sr. had hit her with, and she was angry from whatever charm Draco Malfoy had put on her to make her love him. She didn't want to deal with it anymore. She only had a small amount of spare energy left, and she sure as hell wasn't going to let Riddle manipulate it to his uses.

She backed toward the window, readying herself to open it and jump if need be. She couldn't protect herself; that much was clear; she didn't even have a wand.

And then they were there, standing down the hall from her. Lucius Malfoy was in the front, his dark wand drawn and ready. He stalked, quiet as a cat, as the two behind him, large men, stomped. There was a frown of concentration on his face, an almost predatory gleam in his eye. Ginny's nerve to jump steeled.

"Miss Weasley," he said calmly, "come back away from there. This can all be solved quite easily; just come to us."

Ginny shook her head, her hands shaking in front of her as she raised them to the three men in front of her. "I won't." She said it clearly then focused desperately on the Elemental powers around her, calling on them for help.

The snowy wind broke through the window, flying about the hallway and temporarily blinding her opponents. She backed to the window, then turned and jumped, putting her faith in the wind as she flew downwards to the snowy ground. She fell and fell and fell until she thought she would only fall for the rest of her life, dying on the currents of the winter night.

Her landing wasn't particularly soft, but the combination of wind and snow did break her fall somewhat. She lay on the ground for a time, looking up at the falling snow and barely even noticing the cold that enveloped her body. It was a swirling whiteness, threatening to be overcome by blackness. Knowing she wouldn't be able to stay there long, she forced up her tired body, sitting and breathing fitfully. Her robes were now wet. Swallowing, she looked toward the castle in the distance and cringed. It gave her a sick feeling in her gut, making her want to pass out again.

Shaking it off, she stood and leaned against a tall tree for support. She didn't exactly know where she was, but she could tell it was late evening, maybe close to night. She needed to find cover if she hoped to live through the night. There were thick trees everywhere, most tall and haunting over her. She shivered, crossing her arms over her chest, and thanked whoever was listening that her robes were long-sleeved. Looking into the dark forest and frowning, she made her way to what looked like a thick patch of bushes and shorter trees.

She could see it wouldn't give her any sort of protection, so she kept walking; the only thing driving her was the knowledge that if she were caught, she would most likely die anyway. She would much rather die in rebellion against Riddle than at his hand. A deep breath while she leaned on a tree and she was off again, ignoring the pain in her chest and legs.

Drained and weary, hours after leaving Mordred's castle, Ginny came upon a frozen lake stretching a mile across in either direction. She realized it was just a large bay, and it struck her that she only knew one bay that large, but the fact that it even existed shook her imagination. It had to be Avalon, the forsaken magical fortress of old. Only a few dared enter there, and Ginny sure as hell wasn't one of them. She looked across the bay, seeing an old mission, which just confirmed her suspicions.

Trudging on into the snow, she watched her breath crystallize in front of her, smoky fog clouding her eyes. It was quiet, and the hidden sun was setting; Ginny could tell because it was getting darker and fast. She rubbed her arms quickly, moving faster toward anything that looked as though it might provide shelter.

She found nothing but kept walking. She walked and walked, almost in autopilot as she watched unfamiliar scenery pass by her. It was dark now, and she'd been walking for ages. The cold was beginning to seep through to the very marrow of her bones, causing a shudder of shivers to wrack her body.

Finally, out of sheer desperation, Ginny leaned against a tall, craggy cliff and wrapped her arms around her. Nothing was going to save her. No one was going to come after her. She was alone and tired, and she probably wouldn't last the night. She couldn't even rely on her Elemental powers because she'd exhausted them so.

Finding no other option, Ginny took one last look at the stars, shivering at the brief wind, and closed her eyes. She accepted the dreams that came with morbid curiosity. They stank of death.

* * *

_Storm Warnings_

Percy's ears perked. It wasn't often he listened to the WWN, but in the situation he was, with the lack of entertainment, he was forced to do something when his eyes grew tired of reading. He listened to the message once. Then listened to it play again. His jaw dropped, and his eyes bugged out, but that didn't stop him from sprinting full speed to the headmaster's office.

"_HEADMASTER DUMBLEDORE!!!_" he roared outside the door._ "HEADMASTER!!!_"

The griffin allowed him entrance, and he dashed up the steps until he was breathless inside the headmaster's office. Without a word, he slammed the Wizard's Wireless on the headmaster's desk and watched Dumbledore's expression go from genial to solemn.

"Warning! I repeat, warning! There has been a Meeting warning off the coast –"

"Headmaster! You know what this means, don't you?"

"Hush, Mr. Weasley!"

"– residents of the area are urged to leave immediately! Repeat, there has been a Meeting reported to occur in less than a half an hour. Reports say it is a natural phenomenon, yet highly dangerous. It is speculated that this will be the biggest Meeting in the past three thousand years. Elements involved are Wind and Fire. I repeat, Wind and Fire.

"Warning! I repeat, warning! There has been a Meeting –"

The message was about to repeat again when the headmaster turned off the wireless. Percy had never seen Dumbledore look so tired before. Indeed, he had never seen the headmaster look anything but youthful and vigorous. "Percy, I need you to bring Minerva, Severus, Alastor, and Dorothea to me. They should be in the teachers' lounge. Miss Mariner will be with them. Have Minerva lead you all to the conference rooms; tell her room twenty-one. Be quick."

As he was saying this, he slowly put on an outer coat, gathered a few items off his desk and put a bit of phoenix ash in his pocket. "Can you do this for me, Percy?"

"Yes, Headmaster Dumbledore," Percy answered, dashing out of the room.

* * *

_A Plan Made Victorious_

When Percy reported to McGonagall what the headmaster had told him, she looked rather surprised but did a good job hiding it. Moody looked at Percy with a speculative eye but grunted and began talking in Russian to a woman Percy didn't know; Dorothea had to be her name. She was looking rather disagreeable at the moment and didn't care much to be moved, but she went anyway. Marissa flashed Percy a short smile before rising and following directly behind McGonagall. Percy watched as the two whispered the whole way down through the dungeons.

Upon reaching the coldest part of the dungeon to which Percy had ever been, Professor McGonagall lit her wand, and they continued down a dark set of stairs. They went down and down and down, until they reached another hallway. There were twelve doors in the hallway, but they went through the third on the left.

When they entered, they saw Dumbledore was already inside, along with several other men and women. Fred and George, Percy's brothers, gave him a warm welcome (consisting of several too-hard slaps on the back and jabs in the stomach). Among the others were Kingsley Shacklebolt, Remus Lupin, Rubeus Hagrid, a stout, blonde woman, and a few women conversing quietly in a corner. The woman Percy suspected was Dorothea moved to them immediately, and they greeted her with quiet enthusiasm.

"Order members, professors, Coven Witches, Aurors," Dumbledore said, nodding at everyone in turn. "Please, sit." Chairs pulled themselves out of the table, and they sat; Marissa took Percy's left, and the twins were to his right. The group of women, McGonagall included, sat at the end of the table, Percy's far left, and opposite everyone else. Dumbledore placed himself at the head of the table, sitting in a large seat, with Snape, Alastor and Hagrid lined up near him. "As I'm sure Mr. Percy Weasley has told you, we have found ourselves in a bit of a situation."

"What's this about young Ginevra Weasley being in a Second Meeting?" an aging but still beautiful witch said from the end of the table.

"And how was she captured in the first place, Dumbledore?" another said.

"I thought you said she would have complete protection here," a third added.

"Quiet, hags! Dumbledore has important things to say, so shut your traps!" Madam Bones appeared to be peeved for some reason or other, and her blonde curls bounced dangerously.

"Now, Abigail," a pretty, younger witch said with a silky, cutting voice. "That wasn't very nice. You shouldn't be bitter still, after all that. I mean you did get on the Ministry's little council thing."

"Quit it, Victoria," McGonagall said in a low voice, putting a hand on the young witch's arm. "I wouldn't goad her if I were you."

The young witch, Victoria, looked like she was pouting, but she smiled a secret, little smile at Abigail Bones. "'S not my fault she's not in the Coven."

"_Silencio!_" The spell came from Dorothea, who looked back at the headmaster intently. "The younger generations are so impetuous. Please, continue, Albus."

Marissa leaned over to Percy, whispering in his ear, "The Witches' Coven deals with their disobedient differently, Perce-luv. I'm just glad I'm in favor with McGonagall and Polinen; otherwise, I'd be treated the same. Vic's a half-Elemental, so that's why she's here. She's not nearly as powerful as your sister, though."

Percy nodded, then listened to what Dumbledore had to say. "Thank you, Dorothea," he said with an incline of his head. "I'm sure we'll have no more interruptions." A flicker of amusement was in his eyes when he looked toward the muted witch. "As to your questions…well, the people who know more about that than I are Miss Marissa Mariner and Miss Dorothea Polinen. Marissa, would you?"

She nodded, blue eyes sharp, flickering from person to person, assessing, grading, and dismissing. Percy had seen her do it several times before. "I've gathered much information from a source I can't share, and it amounts to this: Miss Weasley was captured by Lucius Malfoy less than forty-eight hours ago. She was in good condition upon departure; however, under the impression my source had tricked her to secure her capture. This is impossible.

"My second source, whom I must protect, says there was an escape six hours ago from the location Miss Weasley was being held, in part because of him. He ensured me her escape was successful, and, as of an hour ago, she is still unfound. She was in bad condition upon escape, as she had to jump off a high tower. As of an hour ago, she is not within nine miles of the castle in question."

Marissa sat next to Percy again, grabbing his hand, giving it a squeeze, and sending a smile his way before turning her attention to Dorothea Polinen. The woman was clearly old; her hair gave her away. But she was very beautiful still, in a dark way. "I was Ginevra's instructor in the Dreamweaving arts. I qualify her at Ebony Dreamweaver High Priestess in front of you witnesses and the High Prefect Coven Witch, Matilda Law. Is this refuted?"

"No, Coven Witch Polinen," the oldest woman from the group said. She nodded her wizened head and continued. "Your claim of Miss Ginevra Weasley, daughter of Molly Prewett, granddaughter of Eva Jones, great-granddaughter of Isolde Mann, as Ebony Dreamweaver High Priestess is accepted, documented, and honored. Please continue."

The dark, green-eyed woman continued. "As Ginevra's teacher, I feel I must inform you of my complete and utter confidence in her abilities. If she escaped, she is alive and keeping herself alive in the only way she knows how. Esteemed Coven Witch, Ruby Dreamweaver Queen Molly Prewett has been feebly contacted by her daughter, and, though she is not able to leave her post, she sends word that her daughter is alive and more or less well."

"Madam Polinen," Dumbledore said quietly, searching the woman with his gaze, "how would you evaluate her powers? Dreamweaving and otherwise."

"Her Dreamweaving…is genius. She has the most talent I've ever seen. She's creative, yet a perfectionist. She's powerful, yet hesitant not to go overboard. She's knowledgeable, not because I've taught her much, but because she innately knows so much. I contribute most of her receptiveness to Coven Witch Molly Prewett, for she has kept the child's dreams free-flowing and protected. She did well by the girl.

"As for Ginevra's Elemental abilities…I cannot judge. I saw her perform menial tasks at times. She put a fire out or lit one in the hearth when it was cold. At times, when she was tired or upset, there would be a draft, or the fire would well up suddenly. She doesn't seem to notice, but it is always very brief. She is a very special girl. I don't feel as though I can judge her powers, for I myself am not an Elemental or of Elemental blood. Perhaps Minerva…"

Percy listened with interest to the conversations. He had noticed those of the Coven seemed very respectful of his mother, calling her "Esteemed" and reciting her maternal lineage from memory. He also noted they always referred to her with her maiden name – Prewett – which surprised and confused him.

Dumbledore thanked her, and Madam Polenin took her seat. His former professor, Minerva McGonagall, stood from the middle of the group of Coven members, bowing her head to the oldest woman, whom Percy had discovered was the High Prefect of the Witches' Coven. "If you are of pure Elemental blood," she said, a slight jab to the younger, muted witch, "then you will soon come to realize your powers are too much for you alone to control, and you often must go on a sort of quest.

"My personal quest brought me guidance from a Fire Spirit residing in Wales; however, I never saw Miss Weasley search for any form of guidance, Elemental or otherwise. But in the course of my teaching at this school, it has been my job to help along any Elemental descendants, students such as the Patil twins, Draco Malfoy, and Ginevra Weasley. I have worked extensively with the Patil twins, who, although only quarter Water Elementals, show dedication and promise. Mr. Malfoy is untrained; though I suspect he is very receptive to it, as his…ahem…affections…for Miss Weasley are apparent.

"Ginevra Weasley is rather unique, for though she seems to be utterly oblivious of her effect on people with her Elemental power, she shows no need to be trained. She has always kept close rein on it, which I contribute to her training and mental discipline in the Dreamweaving art. She has, however, whether she realizes it or not, great impact on Elementally gifted.

"Her power is so great it secretes and radiates from her, and even in the presence of non-Elementals, her aura is noticeable. Her impact on Elementals is slightly different. While she repels the Patil twins almost violently, Wind and Fire Elementals are innately drawn to her. My training and restraint keep my powers from reacting to hers, but young Malfoy is untrained – he finds himself drawn to her for reasons he can't comprehend. And I feel his Elemental powers have increased since he began spending time with her."

Percy listened, enthralled, as his teacher spoke of his younger sister. Fred and George were in an equally amazed state, he noticed, and he shook his head in disbelief. His Ginny? His little, redheaded, brow-eyed sprite of a sister? It couldn't be! She was so young! All these people knew of powers he'd never understood before. Elementals? Sure, some people knew – if you were learned like Percy. But Dreamweavers? Percy's own mother was one, and he'd never known until a few weeks ago.

Though, as Percy began to think about it, it did all make sense. Percy only remembered having a few bad dreams in his life. Actually, he wasn't sure if he could count them on his hand. And the one he did remember ended with his mother holding him in her arms and kissing his fears away. He never remembered Bill or Charlie, or Fred or George having nightmares. One, two – five between the four of them, maybe! And Ron had that spider thing, but never dreams about it.

Ginny though…Ginny had been different. Percy could remember a conversation – one between his mother and father he was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to hear – that involved his mother's worry about Ginny's endless bad dreams. That was even before the diary incident. The dreams were much worse after that.

Slowly, Percy was able to join in the conversation, which had gone on without him.

"What have your sources told you about Duncan Welsh, Marissa?" Moody was saying in a rumbling, low voice.

Marissa cleared her throat next to Percy and spoke. "I am the source in the case of Duncan Welsh," she said disgustedly. "And though I'm loath to admit it, he has nothing to do with Miss Weasley. Don't get me wrong; he would absolutely love to, but he's not that close with You-Know-Who."

"Marissa…" Moody said warningly.

Percy watched as she sighed, straightened herself, and dutifully replied, "Fear of the name merely increases fear of the thing. I will think of him as evil and call him Voldemort."

"That's m'girl," Moody said approvingly, nodding.

"Wait, wait," George said from Percy's right. It was the first time either of the twins had spoken.

"Yes, go back to the part with Welsh," Fred added. "What's he want with Gin?"

Marissa shifted uncomfortably, and Percy found he himself was interested in the answer. He knew what…Voldemort…wanted with Ginny. But what did this Welsh fellow want with her? Percy watched patiently as Dumbledore hung his head, looking tiredly down the table.

"The thing you must all understand," he began, "is that Mr. Welsh is a scientist above all things. He is weak when it comes to learning; he always desires more knowledge. He is a brilliant man but easily seduced by the promise of infinite wisdom, a bargaining tool of Lord Voldemort.

"You all know," he continued, gazing intently at his audience, "what Lord Voldemort would do with Miss Weasley if he had his way." Percy felt Fred and George shiver along with him at the thought. "But Duncan Welsh has a slightly different aim. He has fashioned himself in love with Miss Weasley, a sort of doctor-patient love. He has revealed the wish to perform experiments on her, how the combination of her Elemental powers and Dreamweaving abilities affect her magic. He has even expressed interest in the rest of the Weasley brood because of your early and constant Showings.

"I fear it would be almost more dangerous for Duncan Welsh to have your sister than Voldemort," the headmaster revealed to Percy and his brothers.

Percy was aghast at the thought of his sister as a love interest of a man old enough to be her father and who wanted to perform experiments on her. He was aghast at the thought of her carrying Voldemort's child. He was aghast at the thought of her even being associated with Malfoy the way in which McGonagall alluded. Everything was so wrong. She was just sweet, little Ginny…nothing bad was supposed to happen to her.

"How can we…save her?" Percy asked in a croaking voice. He fixed himself with a stony expression and looked at Dumbledore.

Sighing, Dumbledore replied, "That will be a problem, Mr. Weasley, a real problem." Gesturing to the Coven Witches on the opposite side of the table, he said, "That is why I invited you, Esteemed Coven Witches. I need you to collect all the Elementals in your ranks and all those you have on file. Your records are much more detailed than some of Hogwarts even. We need all the Water and Earth Elementals you have, for I propose we break the Fire and Wind Meeting as soon as we can."

At this point, there was a loud banging on the table, and the young, outspoken witch tried to speak, but no words came from her mouth. She pointed at her lips, looking angrily at Madam Polenin and pounding on the table again.

Madam Polenin chuckled and fingered her wand. "Ah, and now we come to the reason why this young whelp is even at our esteemed table." She smiled wickedly at the fine-boned, blue-eyed woman and continued. "May I introduce to you the Elemental philosopher of our generation, Coven Witch Victoria Bowman. Her common sense notwithstanding, she is an excellent theorist and was invited here for just this reason. _Finite Incantatum_!"

Bowman sighed dramatically, massaging her throat in a negligent manner. "Thank you, Madam Polenin. I shall learn my place better." She gave a brief nod in the direction of McGonagall and Madam Bones, both of whom looked decidedly nonplussed. "As to your, ahem, little theory on the extinguishment of the Meeting…" She looked as if she were trying to be tactful. "It shows an excellent beginner's knowledge of Elemental properties, Headmaster. And we – my team – have actually been working on this problem for a few years, Meetings being the destructive force they are. We began with your idea of opposing forces canceling each other out…" she frowned here, looking downcast, "and were…unsuccessful."

Marissa pulled Percy down to her level and whispered, "What she means is half her team was injured or killed, and only a few of the more powerful Elementals were able to control the issue. It wasn't her fault; it was her superior's, who died in the reaction. She was warning against it the whole time, but no one listened until after the fact. She got the leadership position then."

Percy nodded and then focused on the younger witch. It seemed as though Percy's first evaluation the woman was only semi-correct. She was a pretty girl with blue eyes and small structure. Marissa had said she was a half Wind Elemental with little power, but Madam Polenin claimed she had great understanding of theory. She certainly sounded knowledgeable, and when she wasn't being haughty, she sounded quite intelligent and inspired.

"…to understand our mistake. The fact that canceling out an Element is impossible aside, it's highly dangerous. I then came up with the theory of magical absorption. Magical absorption is…it's difficult, and you have to be highly trained. On small levels, it has worked. We were able to train a complete novice in the field of Elemental powers to dissolve Fire and Wind. Earth is proving tricky, but Water is coming along nicely."

"So," McGonagall concluded, "what you're saying is you need a whole group of people to suck up this power and you can save Miss Weasley?"

Bowman shifted uncomfortably in her seat and looked at the table for a moment, hands wringing in her lap. "Not exactly," she began. "We haven't actually tried it on a large scale yet…the, ahem, dangers are numerous. Not to mention the fact that this is the single largest Meeting in the past five centuries, maybe in recorded history! Think about it! If this is Ebony High Priestess Dreamweaver Weasley we are talking about, maybe the most powerful Elemental our world has ever seen, and she is making this Meeting (which I assume to be true), she's going to fight its destruction, no matter who we are! If she is doing this to protect herself…well, I don't know if we'll succeed in stopping the Meeting, or even making it smaller."

Madam Polenin cleared her throat and said, "So you're worthless. What are you doing here?"

Victoria straightened, looking indignantly at Polenin. "I most certainly am not! I…I have an alternative planned…just in case. It's…it is not really ready for…for the public, you could say. Actually I have no reason to think it will work…other than the math works out to the last decimal."

"Well, out with it, girl," Madam Polenin pushed, looking disgustedly at Bowman.

"I was thinking a sort of…séance."

As one, the members of the Witches' Coven all scoffed. They tittered amongst themselves as though it were a silly, completely idiotic notion not worth a second thought. Percy found himself agreeing with them. Séances were things Muggle children did at slumber parties and giggled over with flashlights. Percy didn't know any witch or wizard who would demean themselves by holding an old-fashioned séance, the type of thing their ancestors did when magic was still weak.

"A séance! Really, Bowman, you seem to have lost a bit of your edge!"

"Why don't we tell ghost stories and eat sweets, too?"

"Have you ever heard a more ridiculous notion?"

"I'll never sit in a circle with her!"

Bowman took it all with surprising calm, ignoring the Coven members until they quieted. Then she looked directly at Dumbledore, apparently not caring what her superiors thought of her idea. "I know it sounds foolish, Headmaster," she said softly, her eyes glinting with hope, "but Weasley is too powerful for magical absorption. She'd kill even Coven Witch McGonagall with not so much as a fifth of her power. You've got to believe she's still herself in there, no matter how much Elemental radiation she's buried under.

"We need to talk her down from this. We need someone who is close enough to her, who connects enough with her, to communicate with her. A family member would be an obvious choice, but close friends of hers would work very well, too. Obviously I'm open for suggestions on this one, Headmaster, but, truly, in my heart, I don't think we can force her down from the meditational slumber she has put herself in. Do you – _can you_ – see what I mean?"

Everyone quieted a great deal as Bowman spoke. Percy could see people were beginning to accept her idea as genuine, now that the headmaster seemed to be considering it. Percy waited in silence for the headmaster to speak, while ticking off the people who would be suitable to talk to Ginny.

Bill, Charlie, and himself would be out of the question. She was close with all, but not quite as close as she could have been because of the age differences. Fred and George were right out, too. They never really formed a strong bond with anyone but themselves in the family. Ron was actually a good candidate the more Percy thought it over. He cared more about Ginny than he let on and was always the one, before anyone else, who would notice if Ginny was missing or had wandered off. They got in spats quite often, though they were almost never serious.

In the end, Percy had to say, out of his family, their mother had the deepest connection with Ginny. Ginny was her only girl, the one on whom she doted. Ginny was the one who got her hair braided and was there to learn all the maternal traits their mother had to give. Sure, Ginny loved her father, but it was a different sort of bond.

Truthfully, Percy didn't know enough of Ginny's friends to make an accurate guess there. He'd heard she'd had a Ravenclaw boyfriend for a while in her fourth year, but they'd broken up over something little. He knew she was good friends with some of the more artistic people at Hogwarts. One, Colin Creevey, came to mind, as well as, for some odd reason, a poetic Slytherin whose father owned the Floo Network in England, Blaise Zabini. There was also the black Gryffindor Percy recalled giving points to as a prefect when he had seen how good the boy was with a pencil, after he made a drawing for a Quidditch match.

Drawn out of his musings, Percy jumped at the sound of Dumbledore's voice. "Thank you, Coven Witch Bowman. Your suggestion, I think, has been the best so far. In fact, it has been the only that is plausible. I must ask; whom do you plan on recruiting for this operation? You must have someone in mind."

Bowman looked down at her hands, sighing deeply. "Yes, Headmaster. I did."

"Well, out with it then!" Professor McGonagall said impatiently, rapping her fingers on the wooden table.

Bowman ground her teeth, and Percy could see she was trying not to bite out a smart reply. "I can't help but think, Headmaster, that if we were to hold a séance of some sort, the Death Eaters in the area would be able to sense it and attack us. It would be a battle to not only save High Priestess Weasley, but to keep her as well. I propose a defensive force be at ready in case anything happens of that sort…if I've not overstepped my bounds…"

"Hmm…" Dumbledore rumbled appreciatively, nodding.

"Bright girl," Moody said from beside the headmaster. "And I suppose that's why you wanted me here at the meeting. Ya been plannin' this ever since you were invited?"

"Yes, Auror Moody," Bowman said calmly.

Percy saw Bowman's superiors looked rather impressed, and he found himself feeling the same way. Had she, a girl barely out of school, planned all this by herself? Had she calculated the exact amount of time and manpower she would need to save his little sister, a person she barely knew, all because she was a member of this underground organization called the Coven? It seemed a bit surreal, though all this proof in front of him was hard to ignore.

"I made a list of people who I thought would be effective in this séance. Shall I read them?" She looked at the headmaster inquisitively, and he nodded in reply. "Right. Coven Witch Dorothea Polenin, Miss Narcissa Black formerly Mrs. Malfoy, High Prefect Matilda Law, Coven Witch Minerva McGonagall, Coven Witch Fleur Delacour, Candidate Coven Witch Hermione Granger, Candidate Coven Witch Padma Patil, Candidate Coven Witch Parvati Patil, and myself.

"Of course that's only nine, and for a powerful Coven Séance, we'll need at least three, maybe six more. I tried to put many Elementals in the batch, along with people High Priestess Ginevra knows well, thus Coven Witch Polenin and Candidate Coven Witch Granger. The female aspect of it is obvious; High Priestess Weasley is a female, thus needs a female coven to perform the séance. Her mother I believe to be the obvious choice for the speaker; no one could do it better than Coven Witch Prewett."

Strengthened in purpose, Victoria Bowman sat. She was patient while waiting for the answer of her Coven Sisters and the Aurors. Eventually, after much deliberation (or so it sounded), the Coven Witches finally agreed to collect the people necessary. Moody also agreed to gather as many able Aurors as possible to defend Ginny, of which Percy was happy to say he was part.

On his way out of the conference room, however, Percy was stopped by Marissa – who pulled him into a dark corner and hushed him with a glance. She looked very serious, something which told Percy a lot. Marissa was very rarely serious if she could help it; Percy thought it was the only thing keeping her sane. She tried to be jovial through it all, even though she was surrounded by death and lies all the time. She remained her outward calm and frivolity quite well, however manufactured it was.

"Percy," she said quietly, having huddled him into a corner. Her deep blue eyes were haunting in this light, and Percy found it hard to remain contact with them. "I need you to do something for me, Percy."

"What?" he whispered back to her, becoming slightly worried.

"I won't be able to go to battle, Percy, because of my position," she said almost gloomily, "but I can give you a bit of information that will help you."

Percy nodded.

"This," Marissa said softly, pulling out a ring with intricate Celtic knots etched in it, "is called a Spikinrig, a very old magic from Ireland herself. It allows two people to communicate with each other safely over any distance. They are flawless in design, and they can't be destroyed easily, for these are far older than you or I. There is a person, a spy, inside the walls of Mordred's Fortress, who carries the sister to this Spikinrig. He will be able to help you with You-Know-Who's plans."

She put the ring, which was hanging from a chain around her neck, into his hand and closed it around his palm. "Promise me that you won't let this fall into the wrong hands. I've told Moody you have it, because he and Dumbledore are the only other two who even know of its existence. Promise me, Percy."

Percy nodded again, solemnly, and studied the knotted ring. "I promise, Marissa." His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at her again. "Who has the other ring?"

Marissa licked her lips. "Well, you know him…"

Percy frowned.

"Marcus Flint," Marissa murmured quietly. "He's been loyal since our sixth year, ever since his father took him on his training summer and he had to kill a little girl. He's always been loyal, Percy, always. And…" Her eyes grew distant, almost teary, and she looked into the space behind Percy's head. "And…and I love him." Her eyes focused on him again, tears welling dangerously close to breaking point. "So take care of this, please, for me."

The shock was a big one, but Percy felt himself nodding before he was shoved out of the corridor and confronted with the scene of his two younger brothers hitting on Victoria Bowman. Pushing past them, he saw his mother for the first time in ages, and everything went black again.

* * *

ºSamson's Powers - reference to the Biblical Samson whose power source was his hair; Delilah, his mistress, sold him out…


	14. My Skin Is Not My Own

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN:**

**My Skin Is Not My Ownº**

* * *

_Visiting Rights_

Ultimately it was the only thing that could be done. Surveying the landscape, Molly Weasley found herself frowning and wishing she could hold her sons tight – or at least lock them up in some distant mountain's cave until the danger had passed. But, alas, her boys were Weasleys through and through, and nothing, no amount of motherly nagging, pleading, crying, or pouting, would get her sons anywhere near the vicinity of a distant hideaway.

So she opted to dote on them while she could, instead of listening to the cute blonde-headed young lady whom George seemed quite fond of. What was her name? The Order was letting in all sorts of youngsters these days. Ah, Bowman – Victoria Bowman. Yes, George was indeed partial to her; Molly could tell by the way he teased her. Maybe her son was indeed growing up!

That particular thought was dispelled immediately when George reverted to pulling hair to get poor Victoria's attention. Childishness so instilled in her foolish son would not be so easily dismissed. Another sigh brought the attention of her nearest son, which, at the time, happened to be dear Percy.

Yes, he was her dear Percy. "Perfect Percy," his brothers teased him, but Molly knew the truth. As much as Percy longed for his famed perfection, it escaped him all the time. He had gone the straight and narrow, become Head Boy in a much more straightforward way than Bill. He had married (and Molly's grandchildren were due within the next two months – twins by the size of poor Penelope) first, got a proper Ministry job first, and had been gifted with an aspect of his heritage that would bring him respect and probably popularity. The Weasley Blood Berserkers were famous for their powers and battling abilities.

Hopefully, when all this was over, Arthur would be able to explain it to Percy properly. After Percy had blacked out, practically right in front of Molly, he had been out for a long while. Indeed, it was only by the sheer force of his personality he was able to secure his position on the defensive team.

The defensive team. Some of them were too young, Molly noted. Some were ripened old Aurors with more than a few battles under their belts. But some, yes, some looked as though they were barely out of school. A frail looking girl with a fire in her eyes strode by, and Molly tisked silently. This battle wasn't one children should fight.

And yet…and yet there were so many children close by. Most of the séance members were barely adults. Yes, yes, she knew they were young ladies, but really, Hermione Granger was barely eighteen, not even out of Hogwarts, and, despite being a candidate for the Coven, was still just eighteen! Just eighteen! It was ludicrous! Unthinkable! And those two Indian-looking girls, Patils, about Hermione's age, weren't much better.

If Molly was in charge… But Molly _wasn't_ in charge. Right now Dumbledore was in charge, and she was following him in this. There was no room for argument with the way Dumbledore presented the plans. He had fairly listened to everyone's opinion, or so Percy told it, and had then come to a decision about what was to be done. After all…they couldn't just leave Ginny.

Slowly, Molly's eyes wandered from her son Percy, who was talking to her, towards the great wall of fire. They, the séance and defensive teams, were safe enough where they were, but much closer and they would be fed to the tornado of fire and wind. It was hard for Molly to look at the awesome tornado, knowing her youngest child was at the center of it. "Caught," Victoria Bowman had called it. "Caught in her own Elemental drive to survive and gain power." Victoria claimed "the sole purpose of a _TRUE_ Element was to gain as much power as it could, violently if necessary."

Molly knew a lot about Elementals. She had done excess amounts of research on them when Ginny was a baby. She knew just about everything, but Victoria knew more still. Perhaps being an Elemental brought you some enlightenment that was instinctual – not learned. But with all her studies, Molly could never find any proof that something like _THIS _had ever happened.

Victoria described it as "the base of every Elemental. Down deep in every Elemental's soul, there is a purely elemental core; Fire's have fire, Earth's have earth, and so on. When an Elemental taps this power, it can overrun the human side of their soul. In the case of your daughter, Ruby Queen Dreamweaver Prewett, I'm not even sure there is a human side anymore. It could have been…assimilated. That would be dangerous, not only to her, but to us. If someone found a way to control her…"

Her words made Molly shudder, and she closed her eyes. She could still see it though. It was a great, circular wall of flame and wind, towering infinitely into the sky. And her baby was inside of it, controlling it…or it was controlling her.

"Mother?"

This time Percy's voice penetrated the quiet shell around Molly's mind. She looked at him, a wan smile on her face, and patted his cheek. "Yes, Percy?"

"I asked if you were feeling up to this. You look tired," he said, concerned.

Molly just smiled again and looked over at the tower of flame. "I'll be better when this is over, Percy-love."

Percy gazed at her for a moment longer then nodded. "I'm going to go talk to Fred and George, Mum. You want me to send anyone your way?"

"No."

Percy's retreating back drew her attention to Dumbledore, who was walking directly towards her, a wayward smile on his face and hands clasped behind his back. He stopped before her, nodding his head slightly and taking a seat next to her. "It is time, Molly."

A sigh escaped Molly's lips. Folding her hands in front of her, Molly questioned the headmaster. "Do you think this will work, Albus?"

He looked at her sharply over his spectacles. "I have hope, Molly. I have hope. If anyone can make contact with Ginny, it will be you."

"I certainly hope, Albus," she said tiredly. "I cannot help but think that my boys may not make it through the day – motherly concern."

"Understandable. I expect the fighting to start about the time the séance begins. Lord Voldemort will not take kindly to our actions, however blind he is to them now. My magic can only shield us for so long. After that…well, it is up to our Aurors."

Molly could see Dumbledore's eyes going towards the wall of flame, and she sighed again. "Well," she said, putting her hands on her knees and standing up. "No time like the present, eh, Albus?"

He shook his head and led Molly to the circle. Around a grove of trees, half hidden in the brush, nine women sat calmly. To all eyes, they were separate entities, but if one looked closer, inspected each, one would find they were indeed connected. It wouldn't be a far cry to call them a hive mind. When one woman inhaled, they all did at the same time. When one woman's eyes flickered, they all flickered. When one woman had a thought, they all thought the same exact thing.

It was a dangerous state to be in, if not completely protected and trained. It was why, Molly remembered, so many witches of old attempting the séance died. One unsynchronization and they could all be lost. Molly shuddered at the thought and looked up at the headmaster. "I will just talk to Ginny like she's right next to me then?"

He nodded then drew a strange marking on the ground outside the circle of women. "When you enter or exit the circle, be sure you do it here."

"Yes," Molly agreed, taking a deep breath and stepping in front of the symbol. She took one last look at the fiery tornado that was her daughter and stepped over the joint hands of Parvati and Padma Patil. It was now or never.

Inside the circle, there was a magnetic feeling; electricity charged the air with negative energy. It was similar to being inundated with too much magic at once. Molly gazed about her and saw that things were certainly different looking out of a séance than looking in. Outside it was clearly visible that nine women were holding hands in a circle, deep in a trance. But inside…there were no women. There was no sky. There was no earth, and there was no sun or moon. One was just there. No colors, no darkness, no light. Molly equated it to being in a Dreamweaving trance, but knew better.

She wasted no time aligning her mind with her daughter's. It was simple; she'd been doing it since Ginny was a young girl. Molly had always paid special to Ginny, not only because of her Elemental blood, but because Ginny had been intercepting other people's dreams since she was old enough to form coherent thought. Blocking the dreams had been cake for Molly for years, but as Ginny's mind and subconscious developed, Molly found it hard to keep up.

Ginny's dreams finally raged out of control after her first year, and Molly had to ask the Council of Dreamweavers, Dorothea specifically, if they could put a block on Ginny's subconscious. Even with the strongest witches protecting her mind, Ginny was still attacked at night from time to time. Molly learned to connect to Ginny's mind within seconds to calm her, so reaching her daughter now was fairly simple.

Once Molly found herself on the correct "channel," she tried to fill her mind with calm thoughts, so as not to add to the chaos no doubt racing around in Ginny's head. A scene from her childhood: playing in the field behind the Burrow in springtime filled with flowers. Ginny had made a chain from flowers and was wrapping them around herself. There was a sweet breeze, and only then, at the moment Molly was thinking of it, did she realize it must have been Ginny making that breeze subconsciously. Molly smiled and placed herself in the vision, bringing her and her daughter's minds parallel.

It was like being physically scorched. Molly tried frantically to draw back from the metaphysical fire in Ginny's mind, but couldn't do it. She was being sucked into the raging fire spout with no hope of being drawn out. Either Ginny's Elemental powers were manipulating Molly, or Ginny's mind was just far too strong to escape when it came to Dreamweaving techniques. Molly was scared – down to the marrow of her bones, she was terrified of this power – but the memory that Ginny was her daughter, her only daughter, gave her strength. Ginny loved her, and she loved Ginny. Love conquered all.

"Ginny? Ginny, baby? It's Mummy, darling! It's your mother. Come and talk to me, Ginny. I love you."

The voice she heard was not the voice she expected. Of course it was Ginny's voice. That much was clear. But then again, it wasn't Ginny's voice. A hard, metallic sound was layered over it, as though two people, speaking at the same time, were talking through Ginny.

"Mummy! Mummy! I'm scared!"

Molly was assaulted with a barrage of emotions, all of them thrown at her simultaneously. Electricity shot down her veins, frying her nerves. Molly felt her eyes roll back in her head, but kept consciousness. She had to. She had to save Ginny.

Fear, pain, hope, hate, danger, anxiety, terror, betrayal, love – they freefell into Molly's subconscious, and all of them were Ginny's. Try as she might, Molly couldn't organize these emotions for her daughter, much less calm them, and was swept away with the vast current of her daughter's mind.

"Hold on, baby!" Molly cried out frantically. "Hold on. Now be calm for Mummy, Ginny. Stay calm. I love you. I'm here. I'm right here with you."

There was a substantial difference in Ginny now; Molly could feel it. She took this as a good sign and kept going. "I'm here with you, baby. We're getting you out of this. Dumbledore's here. Your brothers are here. People are protecting you. People love you. Come on now; tell me what's happening."

Visions flew past Molly's eyes. Not her memories, however; they were clearly Ginny's. Great valleys of fire. Large hands squeezing her neck. A snake, large and terrifying, slithering towards her, red eyes glowing. A blonde boy, tall and lean, bending over to brush a hair out of her face and kissing her cheek lightly. A terrifying vision of Lucius Malfoy very clearly kissing her and then flinging her away. A flash of blue and red, her vision clouding with colors and then finally blackening.

"Am I in trouble, Mum? I don't know where I am! Save me!"

Ginny's voice was more distant now, as if she was fading away and the metallic voice was taking over. Molly felt a shift of power and realized she couldn't possibly be in the presence of Ginny anymore. This wasn't Ginny's mind. This was much larger and more terrible than Ginny's mind, and much more powerful. It was hotter too. Molly tried to release herself, but she just got sucked in further.

"She is ours, human. Leave her to us. She is our tool. She is our masterpiece."

The Fire Spirit and the Wind Spirit were speaking to her again. It had been nearly seventeen years, but Molly would _NEVER_ forget the sound of that voice. And Molly also remembered there was a deal. Her daughter's, her sons' and her own life for Ginny to be their hybrid. They _COULDN'T _do this. They were bound.

"She is _MINE_! My daughter and you can't take her! We had a deal! _WE HAD A PACT!_" she raged at the Elements.

There was a long moment of silence, but the voice spoke again. "You invoke the rights of our pact? You hold us to our word, though your daughter is no longer a human?"

Hard faced, Molly answered with a question. "No longer…a human? What do you mean? Speak clearly."

The booming voice, confident and awful, spoke again in its metallic quality. "Her Elemental blood has been fully activated. She called us. She asked for our protection, and we gave her power. She will be an Element soon, our masterpiece. She will be Wind and Fire, the only of her kind. She will leave this plane of existence and travel on the parallel of the Elements."

Molly felt despair down to the bottom of her heart. They would steal her daughter. …No… No, they wouldn't. Molly would stop them. Dumbledore would stop them. Someone had to.

"I'll never give up my daughter."

"It's not your decision. It was hers. She made it. She asked for it. She _WILL _be one of us."

"I will fight you. _WE_ will fight you. Don't you _DARE_ think you will win!"

Molly signaled the end of the séance with a message aimed at the nine women encircling her and was immediately sucked out of Ginny's semi-conscious mind. Very carefully, very purposefully, Molly strode out of the circle in the marked area and looked Dumbledore straight in the eyes.

"Do whatever you need to take down these Elements, Albus. I won't let them take my daughter."

* * *

_Death Fall_

The first of them started to appear over the ridge within minutes after Dumbledore let down the protective shield. It wasn't an anti-Apparation shield, more of an anti-magic shield, one that prevented those of magical blood from crossing over it. Percy thought it was ingenious. But then, Dumbledore was the one who created it, and to Percy, everything Dumbledore did was ingenious.

Percy looked to his left and his right, just to make sure the Aurors were all ready. He knew they would be – they were hardened killing machines, only the good kind. Fred and George fingered their wands restlessly to his right, and about ten meters to his left, Percy could see Moody and a few of his followers – a waif-like woman, a black man, and two men with brown hair – gathered about.

The approaching Death Eaters seemed shocked at the fire burning in the distance and were visibly in awe of it. Percy steeled himself over, thinking only of protecting those in the séance. They would need it, after all. Fred and George winked at him and then touched the ends of their wands together.

They had developed the attack themselves. Something about being twins and spending every waking moment together gave them powers different from other witches and wizards. Not that they weren't capable of working separately, but when they worked together, let their magic combine and mix, they put a different spin on their powers that was deadly. When they put their wand tips together, it was a signal – watch out, you aren't going to like this.

The Death Eaters cast the first spell. A man in the front of the charge, all in black, raised his wand above his head and shouted, "_Morsmordre!_"

The battle began as the snow began to fall.

* * *

_Fell Memories_

Draco looked out the window at the falling snow. He, Potter, Weasel, Zabini, Creevey, and Thomas were being kept – for their own safety – in a small tower on the eastern wing of the castle. Filch was guarding them, but Draco knew he was guarding against their escape, not protecting them. The crooked old man and his cat stood by the door, viewing all of them with a distasteful eye – especially Potter and Weasel, who were huddled in the corner farthest from his. Zabini, Creevey, and Thomas were sitting on a couch near Draco, discussing some trivial nonsense Draco had blocked from his mind long ago.

The wind gusted outside the window, and the fire in the room roared. Draco still felt cold inside. He was cold with fear, feeling this was his fault. It was his fault. He could have – should have – told her the minute she came back. Then he would have had an easier time. She would have had an easier time. They could have gone their own way after that, if that was what she wanted. And he would have let her go. He didn't deserve her, not after killing so many people.

But he couldn't help touching her again. And kissing her. His hands that had signed the death warrants of countless Muggles and wizards couldn't stay safely away from her. When he'd seen her walking cautiously down the hall, her eyes anxious and her hair red as a rose, he knew she was all he ever wanted or needed. Nothing could fill the void she would leave.

He was weak, and he knew it. Part of him wanted to hate her for this. All of him hated Lucius for this. Why did he have to read the diary? If he'd left it there, not opened it, just let it be, he would never have put Ginny in danger. But then, he never would have loved Ginny either. She had changed him, let him love, let him feel. It had been there the whole time, but it wasn't acceptable. Not acceptable to Lucius. What did he know? Draco would kill him for this.

Draco would kill all that came between him and Ginny from now on. He would always know where she was, know how to reach her, and be by her as much as he could. No other man would touch her; no other person would touch her…maybe her parents…and possibly her brothers. Not Weasel though… Perhaps it borderlined on insanity, but Draco could never let this happen again.

Draco gripped the windowsill and put a hand on the glass. It was cold, but it was warmer than he was. Puffy, white snow clouds obscured the sky. He sighed, closing his eyes and trying to remember their last conversation. How could he have done it differently? What could he have said…done…explained?

_Why did you have to make me love you, Draco? Why?_

Echoing silence droned in Draco's mind. She loved him. She had really loved him. And now she hated him for it.

_Ginny, please, you have to listen to me. Please, Gin? Just put down the wand. I want to explain to you, please. _

_No, I won't listen to your lies anymore, Draco. I can't believe I ever did. That's all it was to you, one big lie. One master move in your game of life. I was just a pawn you used to get the prize, right?_

_A pawn…_she thought she was his pawn. Couldn't she see? How could she be so blind? He was her pawn. He was her pawn to do with what she wished. If she had told him to kill himself, he would have thrown himself out the window right then. And she thought his love was a lie. A lie?!

_No, Ginny. Not you. I would never play that game with you. Please let me explain, Gin. Please. I love – _

_SHUT UP, DRACO! I won't believe your lies anymore! You haven't changed at all! I won't let you manipulate me! You just leave me alone! I'm not going to let him get me again! I refuse! Don't make me hurt you, Draco; stay in that bed."_

_Ginny, please! Listen to me! I beg you! _

_No. You listen to me, Draco Malfoy. I gave you a chance. I gave you my heart. I gave you a lot of things. And if I thought for one minute that your love was true, I'd give them a thousand times and not care about you being a Death Eater or not. But you lied to me. You took false words and made me believe them. I may not hate you now, but someday, when I can heal from this, I will find you to be the most despicable human on the face of this earth._

Draco felt himself crumpling. She loved him. She loved him. And now she hated him. She thought he was "the most despicable human on the face of this earth." And what hit hardest was that she would have loved him beyond being a Death Eater. She would have loved him still, even though he killed and pillaged and committed countless atrocities. She was willing to forgive him all this…but not lying to her.

She had been lied to far too many times in her life. She lied to herself sometimes even. She couldn't help it. It was all she knew. Damn Voldemort and damn Lucius! Damn Tom Riddle, too! They had manipulated her. They had placed the seeds of distrust. They had made her, unwillingly, their pawn. And when she broke free of them, she trusted that the next person she gave her heart to wouldn't do the same.

And Draco had.

_If you know what's good for you, Draco, don't follow me._

_Don't follow me…_ It played continuously in his head. He should have followed her. He could have caught her. He could have stopped her. He could have pinned her down on the ground if necessary, shown her Godric's Crest and made her believe. He could have taken her to the headmaster and told him to tell her. Of all the things he could have done, he didn't follow her. He sat on his bed and let her run, feeling his world crash around him. She told him not to say he loved her. It wasn't any use. He did. He would never stop. Not even in death.

_If you know what's good for you, Draco, don't follow me. …Draco, don't follow me. …Draco…_

"Draco?"

It was a fuzzy sound on his ears. He couldn't tell who said it because he couldn't see anymore. Just figures with undeterminable shapes blending in with the background. His hearing wasn't responding…he felt something leaving him… He was weak… falling… falling… down… down… down… into the rabbit hole…º

Draco jerked awake, startled and ready to kill. It was an instinct he'd learned that summer. His wand was in his hand and a curse on his lips until he saw it was Potter's face he was seeing.

"Get out of my way, Potter," Draco said angrily, putting the heel of his hand on Potter's forehead and pushing hard.

"Hey!" Potter yelped indignantly as he flew back a few steps, frowning.

Draco was on his feet by then and looking around suspiciously. Everyone crowded around him, looking anxious. "What?" he snapped.

Potter got a snotty look on his face, frowning and crossing her arms. "Well, excuse us for caring, Mr. Pass-Out-And-Scream. Next time we'll let you go into uncontrollable spasms all by yourself."

Draco merely gave him an imperious look and then frowned. Something in the room felt wrong. Something felt very wrong. "The fire is out," he said calmly.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Weasel mumbled, sneering cheekily at Draco and crossing his arms as well.

"And the wind stopped blowing," Draco added, frowning.

"Are you suffering from brain trauma, or are you just plain stupid?" Weasel ground out. "For the love of Merlin, Malfoy –"

"Ron, shut up," Zabini snapped, his eyes dark and serious. He turned to Harry, Ron, and finally Draco. "Malfoy – Draco." Draco winced. "What's going on?"

Draco paused a moment before answering. Something was definitely wrong, but he couldn't say what. It was as if…something was missing. Something really important that he didn't know he had until it was gone.

"There's supposed to be a blizzard today," Zabini commented dryly in his drawling accent. "Where'd the blizzard go?"

Then realization dawned on Draco. "My wind…" he said softly. "My power…it's gone!" He leapt to the window – no wind, no nothing. Just free-falling ice crystals. Then, completely mad, "Something's happening to Ginny!"

* * *

_What the Sky Sees_

The sky was the lone observer of the atrocious acts of the man below. Hidden well beyond the range of any shield or detecting device was an enclave in the rock of a cliff. Carved twenty feet above the man were large, human-sized runes. In the runes, there were faint traces of blood from the last sacrifice made there. This was a dark place, unknown to those who hadn't seen the scripts of Mordred's secret book – _Morte D'Mordorde.º _

The sky watched as the man spilled his blood in the runes of the dark cliff. It took only a drop to ignite and a cupful to empower the dark magic of the area. The man drew unevenly on the ground ancient scrawl of the dark tongue of the witches and wizards long ago. They had called it _Ogrambe, _but today it was called Dead Speech by those who had read it in _Morte D'Mordorde_. The man spilled more of his blood on the ground to reflect his actions in the runes and lit the blood afire.

He stood to the side of a giant circle in which the words, crudely outlined in blood, burned; the fire grew with intensity as he shouted and raved the Dead Speech. Then, out of a bag at his side, he spoke three words, unintelligible and crass, and a giant gust blew up around the fire, entwining, braiding, blending, and becoming one. The flame-winds rose high in a mirror of the tornado and then sank into a puddle on the ground. The puddle – a burning hellfire of elements – raged and licked dangerously at the trees and sky.

The man, white with terror and sick joy, began the second verse of prose. He raised his hands to the sky, calling on some force to aid him in his evil. All around him glowed with a dark aura, black and awful, and his eyes became solid black orbs. Black bolts of energy came from his fingers, and he laughed sinisterly.

"Come to me, Ginevra," was all he said.

* * *

_Comfortable in Your Other Skin, Part III_

Something was wrong. Molly could feel it. Something was definitely happening that shouldn't have been. She frowned, helping the small-boned Victoria woman drink some water. The members of the séance were practically drained of all power and life by the time Molly had stepped out of the ring. She and Poppy were taking care of the women, a safe distance from the battle. There were a few wounded men Poppy had seen to right away. No one Molly knew, but people she cared for nonetheless.

"Coven Witch Prewett," Victoria mumbled heavily. Her eyes strained to open, and her light complexion wasn't creamy – it was white. She stumbled over a few words, and Molly tried to shush her, tried to make her rest, but she persisted. "Your daughter is in trouble," she murmured sleepily. "Go…"

Molly dropped the glass of water and let it spill on the ground. She looked over to the swirling tornado of wind and fire and saw it was diminishing slowly. Were the Elements relinquishing their control over Ginny? Bowman had said Ginny was in trouble.

…What if she wasn't in trouble from the Elements?

"Poppy! Something's happening! Stay here!" she shouted over her shoulder, drawing her wand and running her fingers down the smooth wood as she strode purposefully towards the tornado.

She was closer than anyone had been so far. A deathly scream penetrated Molly's ears, and her purposeful stride became a frenzied sprint. That was Ginny's scream. The closer she ran, the hotter it became, but for some reason Molly was able to bear it. Between the trees, she could distinctly see her daughter levitating in the air.

Through the torrents of wind and fire, Molly saw what had happened to her daughter.

Ginny's eyes were wide open in shock and pain. They were a solid red color, shimmering with metallic quality. She was completely bare, her clothes no doubt burnt off. Despite this her skin remained unblemished and glittering white, or translucent opal maybe. It had a magical characteristic Molly couldn't rightly place. But Ginny's hair was the most magnificent part. It was pure flame, red-orange and dancing like a candle in the breeze. The palms of her hands and the soles of her feet were releasing controlled, small fires, as if the heat inside her had no other way to escape.

Molly cried out for her poor daughter. And just as she was about to throw herself into the fire, it abruptly stopped, dissipating into nothing. Ginny hung suspended in the air for a moment and then dropped lightly to the ground. Her hands and soles were no longer flaming, but as she lay crumpled on the ground, Molly saw her hair was still a mass of flames, and her skin glowed with shimmering light.

"Ginny?" Molly asked soothingly as she stepped towards her daughter. The heat was almost too much for her to handle, but she proceeded.

"Mummy?" Ginny said weakly. Her eyes cracked open, and Molly gasped. They were blood red and swirling like ruby molten silver. "Mum…" she repeated tiredly. "I'm scared, Mum. I'm sorry…"

"Oh, Ginny!" Molly cried, throwing herself at her fallen daughter.

Her hand barely touched her daughter's cheek when she felt a supreme burning pain, and she was thrown back with such force that when she hit a sturdy tree, she felt blood pouring down her forehead, and her eyes went black. She did, before passing out, see a ring of fire and wind wrap around her daughter; letters or runes, she couldn't tell which, formed the base of these powers. Ginny let loose a blood-curdling wail and disappeared in a flash of light. The runes burned themselves into the ground, and Molly's world went black around her.

* * *

_Manifestation of Destinyº_

Percy took his first loud step into the entrance hall of the dark-tainted castle. He sniffed the air and found it rank and old, as though no one had breathed in it for centuries. He frowned and looked around himself. There were thousands of places for Death Eaters to hide – stairwells, corners, doors, shadows. He looked about and found the windows were encrusted with a thick layer of dust, and he couldn't see the dim light of the evening through them.

Tightening his grip around the man's neck, he raised the Death Eater to eye level. Truthfully, Percy had forgotten the man was there, even though he had dragged him through snow, mud, rain, battle, and the elements. The man shivered and shook, terrified of being with an authentic Weasley Blood-Berserker, the oldest and most powerful family line with the Blood-Berserker gene.

Percy knew he should know the man's name. He couldn't remember in his bloodlust, however. It was a man that had inflicted pain and anguish, not only on his family, but on thousands of innocent witches, wizards, and Muggles. The long, blonde hair and pallid skin should have told him more than it did, but in Percy's state he tended to see things in good and evil. Percy was good, and this man was evil; therefore Percy had a civic duty to cleanse the world of this man through death.

"Where is he?" Percy ground out through clenched teeth.

"He" was, of course, Voldemort. Percy had every intention of finding Voldemort and making him beg for his worthless, sniveling, repulsive life. And then Percy would kill Voldemort – preferably with his bare hands. And then Percy would take his blackened heart and give it as a present to Dumbledore.

Percy nodded to himself and increased the pressure on the blonde man's neck. "Tell me where he is, and I'll kill you slowly," Percy demanded.

"…or… Don't you mean 'or'?" the older man said, chuckling. "Weasleys really aren't good for anything…"

The Death Eater was a prideful one, Percy noticed. "No. I said 'and,' and I meant 'and.' Now…we'll try again," Percy said softly as he pushed the man into the wall, his head cracking on the black bricks. "Tell me where your master is, and I'll kill you slowly."

"Lord Voldemort shall rule all! The name of Malfoy will not be disgraced by a puny Weasley brat! I will –"

_CRACK! _

The man's neck snapped in tiny shards, and Percy dropped him to the ground.

"_Incindio!"_

The man burned. Then Percy dusted off his black robes, now covered in dirt and mud, and looked about him once more.

On guard at the sound of hands clapping, he spun around and formed a spell in his mind. Upon seeing who it was, Percy lost most all of his senses. The spindly man was tall and wiry, not very appealing to the eye, and dressed in long, shapeless, black robes. His white hands and bald head were all that appeared even vaguely human, and his flat, snake-like nose repelled Percy's aesthetic tastes.

"Voldemort," Percy hissed, his eyes drawing together.

He felt hatred and power bubble within him. Without realizing it, rage and chaos enveloped his senses, and all Percy could feel was the need to kill. The competition of two wizards, two enemies, two men, each one with a reason to kill, each one with a goal to attain, overwhelmed Percy. He felt his hairs stand on end. It wasn't out of fear. It was out of determination, out of adrenaline, and out of anger. He would win. He would kill Voldemort.

"I've been hearing about you, my little Weasley," cooed the stalking figure. Voldemort descended the stairs slowly, slithering. "The son of the great Arthur Weasley, the most feared Blood-Berserker of our time. Oh, yes, he caused many problems for us in the first uprising, as I'm sure you intend to do now.

"It is unfortunate for you," he continued, reaching the bottom of the stairs and removing his wand from his sleeve, "that you meet me in my prime, when yours is still years away."

Percy was in no mood to banter with a dark lord. All he was meant to do was enter the castle – which he had done – find Voldemort – which he had also done – and then kill Voldemort – which he was about to do. Everything else was trivial. In the deep places of his mind, Percy felt an untapped power, something he couldn't reach. It troubled him, but his confidence told him this would be the end. The end of Voldemort or the end of him – he wasn't sure he cared which at the moment.

"You could," Voldemort said after a moment, extending a hand towards Percy, "reach my level…potentially."

Percy wasn't interested. He let that be known.

"We would make strong allies, Weasley," Voldemort continued.

"Your fear betrays you, Voldemort," Percy said smoothly, with undertones of anger. "Fight me if you do not wish to seem cowardly."

Voldemort seemed nonplussed. He narrowed his eyes and retracted his skeletal hand. "Very well, Weasley." Then he sneered, a mask of evil forming over his face with porcelain terror. "Prepare to die. _Crucio!_" he hissed maliciously.

Percy felt the strangest sensation of pain he had ever known. He could tell his body was in pain. He knew it had to be. No one stood after the Cruciatus Curse. But Percy was. In fact, Percy was not only standing; he wasn't affected by the pain. It was there, but it didn't hurt. He let the sensation wash over him twice more before he reacted.

Percy reveled in the power that surged around him. It was old, corrosive, and, above all, strong. It swirled around him in vibrant shades of red and formed itself into a funnel before him. Percy sneered and felt another Cruciatus hit him. Without a word, he released the tornado of power, and it struck Voldemort with such force that it propelled him into the wall, shattering it and reducing the brick to rubble.

Striding purposefully to the dust, Percy stood over the fallen Voldemort. There was no form in the debris, but Percy noted there was blood. He half smiled at this and turned around to face his enemy. Voldemort was unclothed, his robes no doubt burnt from his body. He had large gashes in his torso that wound in curving shapes, oozing a black-red blood.

The dark lord coughed up blood and let it dribble down his chin before wiping it away with his wand hand. "You'll pay for your insolence." It was all he said, save, "_Bormosda!_"

Percy felt cold hands grip at his neck, and he tried to pry them away. Then it was as though a thousand iron-hot knives were being stabbed into his stomach, his back, his ribs, his legs, and his arms. It was like no pain he'd ever felt, and soon he was bleeding from every wound inflicted by the Stabbing Cruse. Percy's stomach lurched, and he puked nearly a fourth of a liter of his own blood, or so it seemed.

Somehow Percy found his way from his knees to his feet, and he ripped off his bloody robes and shirt. There were stab wounds everywhere; blood seeped from his nose and mouth onto the ground.

Percy spat blood to the side and clenched his fist as tight as he could. Slowly but surely, lightning bolts formed inside his fist, gaining in electrical power and size. It flashed dangerous red and gold, splintering off in tongues of deadly power. Percy smirked his most cruel smirk and hurled the mass of lightning into Voldemort's middle.

"_Protectus!_" Voldemort shouted.

A green barrier formed around his body, but it lasted half a second against Percy's Blood-Berserker power. Voldemort's body convulsed on the ground – fingers of lightning entered his ears and exited his mouth and nose and eyes. Blood quaked out of his wounds, his eyes, his mouth.

When the lightning dissipated, Percy, amazingly still standing, leered over Voldemort. "You will pay."

"And you will die," coughed the nearly immobile dark lord. He rose a weak hand up and whispered two words. "_Artesip Cerus!"_

Air left Percy's lungs, and his skin grew hot. It grew so hot that Percy watched in horror as it began to melt from his body. The pain was excruciating. Voldemort in the background laughing, cursing Percy's family, his name, his wife, his unborn children, and his future, furthered the pain until Percy thought he would pass out.

And then Voldemort was quiet. Percy's pain stopped. When he looked at Voldemort, he saw a very long blade sticking out his bloodstained neck. Voldemort fell on his chest and jerked a few times before he stopped moving completely.

Behind where he had stood was a familiar figure with dark brown hair, tan skin, and large, irregular teeth. The man – in the same year as Percy when he was held back – nodded towards Percy and spoke in a deep, gravelly voice. "You alright, Weasley?"

Percy coughed up a mouthful of blood, but nodded. "Flint. Miss Mariner said I would find you here."

The shorter man glowered. "We need to leave now. Can you walk? Or do I have to carry you?"

Percy spat. "Don't touch me, Flint," he barked. Then, painstakingly, he stood, leaning on a large chunk of debris. "Is he dead?" he asked calmly.

Flint snorted and shook his head. "Of course, he's not dead, Weasley! He's Lord fucking Voldemort! That's the point; he doesn't die! I just bought us about ten minutes before his regenerative powers start working. We have to go now!"

"Not when we can finish this right now!" Percy said, staggering towards the mangled body of Voldemort. "We could kill him right now, Flint! One more curse would kill him!"

"_NO!_" Flint yelled, pushing Percy back roughly, drawing his wand. "We can't kill him! Only one person can kill him; that's the design of the potion. Only one who shares his blood can kill him. Only Harry Potter!

"If you try to kill him, you will only end up killing yourself trying; nothing will work on his body, Weasley. Nothing. Now we need to leave," Flint finished.

Percy looked purposefully at Flint, then the body of Voldemort, then the door. Unfortunately, his moment of thought and reflection was cut short by the words, "Stupefy" and "great, arrogant git."

Flint slung Percy's arm and leg over his shoulders and carried him out of the castle's Anti-Apparation field before Apparating to a safer location – Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

* * *

_My Skin Is Not My Ownº_

Ginny gazed silently at her skin. It was silvery and silken. She could see she was no longer human in that sense. She didn't have any feelings of pain or discomfort. In fact, Ginny felt great. She felt as though someone had stripped her down to atoms and built her up better, stronger, faster all over again. She flexed her fingers and marveled how her skin seemed to move constantly. Well, not her skin specifically, but the wind reflected on her skin.

Her hair was long and raged like a forest fire behind her. She saw this in the mirror. However, it didn't burn her surroundings. It was controlled and only adopted the appearance of flames. She sighed, running her hands through it. There was no texture, no heat, no mass – just fire.

But the mirror showed something more terrible, more frightening to her than anything she had seen in it thus far – her eyes. They were an imitation of marble, sparkling red with veins of silver running in them like a tornado. She had to look hard to see the silver streaks, but they were there.

Reaching into her mind, Ginny realized she was no longer what she had been for sixteen years of her life. Before, she was a normal girl. Well, as normal as one could be. Sure, she was a Dreamweaver. It was a family trait. Every family had those. Sure, she was an Elemental, a Wind-Fire Hybrid, first of her kind, grand experiment of the Elements, but that had been an accident. She had tried to live as normally as she could.

And now…what was she now? She was the ultimate Element. She wasn't a human, though not a shadow of a human as most Elements, such as Water, Lightening, and Earth were. She was an Element in human form, so not truly a human, but an Element wearing the mask of one. Two Elements to be precise – Fire and Wind. She was Fire and Wind.

And try as she might, she couldn't cry.

"My skin," she murmured softly to herself, "is not my own. My skin is not my own…"

The man stood behind her again. Black eyes and black hair with a few grays about the edges, broad and nearly two meters tall, he made a striking figure in his black robes. He was always looking, always watching. He had looked and watched ever since she woke. He didn't say anything when she spoke to him, asked him for his name, for help, and for information. She thought he might be deaf or mute, or even both.

She was almost ready to get up and leave when the man finally spoke. "My name is Duncan."

Ginny bit her lip and looked down. "I'm Ginny…Ginny Weasley. Do you know where we are?"

The man half smiled and nodded. "Far away from anything that will ever bother you. Far away from fear and harm. Far away…"

Ginny had her suspicions now. He seemed harmless, but a little insane. He could be a psycho-wizard living in the woods because he enjoyed being isolated and she was the first person he'd seen in a long time and that was why he was so weird…but she didn't think so.

She took a deep breath and sighed. "Do you know what happened to me?" she asked.

He nodded his head. "You got tired after you escaped. You dug too deep for your Elemental powers. They took you over. You unlocked the vault and unlocked the forces within you. It was dangerous, but I found a way to control them."

Ginny's eyes grew wide, and her voice pleaded with him. "Can I go home? Please?"

The man, Duncan, just shook his head and smiled slightly. "You're mine now. You can't do anything I say you can't. I'm your master now."

Teeth clenched and anger boiling over, Ginny stood up and moved to burn the man to ashes.

"Sit!" the man barked.

Ginny sat and couldn't get up. She writhed and whined and screamed and yelled and used all her resources to get free. But she couldn't. She sat there still, and had a feeling she would sit there forever unless the door before her, the one which didn't let her access her powers, opened again. She wanted to cry so desperately, but she couldn't, so she sat there and glared at her captor.

"What do you want with me? Why won't you let me go? What did I ever do to you?" she said angrily, her arms crossed before her.

Duncan's eyes softened, and he moved towards her, getting on his hands and knees in front of her on the floor. "You didn't do anything to me. I won't let you go because I love you – you and your child. I don't care whose it is; it'll be ours. And we can be happy together forever."

Ginny felt her hands move unexpectedly to her stomach. Her jaw fell open, and she reeled backwards, standing and going into a corner of the room to sit. She knew. The baby was his. The baby was Draco's. And now…now, no matter how much she hated him, he might never see his child.

Ginny wished fervently for the ability to cry. No tears came.

* * *

º"My skin is not my own." – Leto Atreides, Frank Herbert's _Children of Dune_

º"…down… down… down… into the rabbit hole…" – allusion to Lewis Carroll's _Alice in Wonderland_

_ºMorte D'Mordorde_ – I totally made this up. Roughly, it means "The Life of Mordred."

ºManifestation of Destiny – rip-off of Manifest Destiny (History Brief: Manifest Destiny was the excuse the settlers used to cross the Mississippi River and go west to California, Oregon , etc. It stated that it was the white Christian's right or destiny to own and exploit the continent of America.)


	15. Five Years of Fire and Wind

**A/N:** Pronunciation – Cassian (KASH-un), Ignatius (ig-NAY-shus)

* * *

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN:**

**Five Years of Fire and Wind**

* * *

_Wizarding History 202_

Hermione wasn't a student any more. Well, she reminded herself, she would always be a student of knowledge. It was part of her main goal now. Not to collect as much knowledge as possible, her real dream, but to find a specific amount of knowledge. The fact that she worked for the Order, the biggest anti-Voldemort resistance in England, only secured the fact that she would have little supplies and limited time.

Of course, Victoria was a big help. The two of them worked together, and they worked quite well, too. They seemed to understand each other, which was good considering they were almost nothing alike. Well, besides both of them had been accepted into the Witches' Coven at unnaturally young ages and they served the Order. Victoria was snotty, pig-headed, snide, and slightly sadistic. She had thick, straight brown hair that used to be long, but had been cut after she had her first child. But she wasn't a person Hermione particularly disliked. She knew the reason for Victoria's personality.

Hermione had gone through some of it while she was being inducted into the Coven. They constantly berated you, made you feel small, stupid, and insignificant. They did it to make you tougher, to make you want to succeed with more vigor, to prove them wrong. Well, Victoria's mother, Coven Witch Turley, was one of the cruelest, most spiteful, hard-assed witches in the Coven. Victoria had grown up with this woman, the whole time Coven Witch Turley training her daughter to be in the Coven. The stress it must have put on Victoria was just so great that she was constantly on the brink of crumbling. To build herself up she put others down, the exact same way her mother must have taught her. Victoria's personality was a well-planned intention of her mother's hate.

But Victoria was working past it. She was constantly changing. And Hermione could see both sides of the girl. Half of the time Hermione wanted to hate her because of what she said or did to other people. But Hermione had to remind herself that she was doing her best to change, and congratulated Victoria for it.

A major factor in Victoria's metamorphosis was George. They had married four years ago after a year of courtship. George seemed to add levity to Victoria's life, seemed to give her a different perspective. Not to say they didn't fight like cats and dogs. One would think they were worst enemies. But Hermione knew that nothing said in the heat of the moment was meant. They were very affectionate when they thought no one was looking. And Victoria was turning out to be a caring, loving mother. She had two children – Lawrence (more often than not Larry) was three and Fred was one. Both boys had glorious red hair, deep brown eyes, and freckled noses.

As much as Victoria had changed, Hermione was still amazed by the changes in the rest of her friends. Since Ginny had been captured five years ago everyone had become someone different.

Everyone had graduated of course. That was a given. Lavender and Seamus were married. There was no surprise. Parvati and Padma were Elemental Coven Witches and served the purposes of the Coven. They helped with Hermione and Victoria's project more often than not. Dean Thomas and Colin Creevey had gone liberal and were both artists somewhere in France. Hermione hadn't seen them for more than four years.

Neville Longbottom, in perhaps the greatest feat of transformation, had lost a great deal of weight, and then gained it all back in muscle. He was an even two meters and weighed two hundred forty pounds and one of the best defensive aurors on BAF – the British Auror Force.

Ron and Harry had since separated themselves from Hermione and become a force to be reckoned with. Both were Aurors, it seemed a popular trend for her year. They were the prodigal sons of BAF and the Order. Almost no mission was too dangerous, no deed too impossible, and no regulation too traditional to break. They were hell-bent on catching and killing every last Death Eater they found. Unfortunately, they hadn't learned that they were the minority out there.

Voldemort had more troops than anyone had thought possible. Death Eaters had gone under the façade that they were a limited number of fanatics for so long people had believed them. But they weren't. Oh, how they weren't. There were thousands, hundreds of thousands, all over the world. It was amazing. It was astounding. It was disgusting.

Marissa Mariner, one of Hermione's closer friends since Ginny went missing, was married as well. Hermione hadn't known her in school, or even heard of her. Of course, she'd heard of Marcus Flint, though. It amazed her to no end that he was actually on _THEIR _side. It was…encouraging. Marissa and Marcus were a deadly duo, now that both of them had come out as Order of the Phoenix members. They were like the Lestrange couple but for good, not evil. They had no children, but Hermione knew the reason for that. Marissa had confessed to Hermione that she didn't have the ability to bare children.

Despite being strict enemies throughout school, Percy and Marissa had grown into very good friends. Hermione was sure that it was because of the connection they formed while working undercover. The amount of trust they must to have had in each other no doubt formed the base for a strong friendship. Through Penelope and Marissa, who were surprisingly good friends regardless of the fact that they had detested each other throughout school, Percy and Marcus had formed an uneasy truce. It would be a stretch to say they liked each other, but at least they still didn't want to kill each other any more.

A bearing factor on the close relationship between Marissa and Penelope, and also in the strained relationship between Marcus and Percy, was the fact that Marissa loved children, and Penelope and Percy had five. Peter and Michael, who were born two months after Ginny was captured, were five-year-old twin boys with very curly, red hair and crystalline blue eyes. They, under the influence of Fred and George, had become somewhat troublesome and outrageous pranksters. Percy and Penelope were forced to put their feet down at many of their antics. Unfortunately Marcus, or Uncle Marcus, encouraged them shamelessly. Josephine had red hair as well and was nearing her fourth birthday. She was a quiet girl and had learned to speak and read nearly flawlessly by three and a half. Josephine had the grace of a small dancer, very pretty blue eyes, and angular features. Liberty, however, who was two, was very much a loud and winy child. She threw tantrums spontaneously and turned a tomato-like squash when agitated – which was really easy to do. And, of course, Penelope and Percy's two-month-old son, Arthur, who had already had his first Showing, promised to be a handful.

Marissa and Marcus had a very close relationship with all the Percy-Penelope Weasley brood, and were a perfect example of good Slytherin-Gryffindor relations. They even lived near each other – close enough to walk. They constantly had dinners together, and Marissa adored looking after the children.

It was public knowledge that Percy was a Blood Berserker – it was the main reason he was made Minister of Magic at such a young age. He was the youngest in history actually, and shaping up to be one of the strongest, too. His popularity had risen when it was revealed that he had beaten Voldemort in a duel, had saved countless victims from the betrayals of Duncan Welsh and several other traitors, killed Lucius Malfoy, received the First Class Order of Merlin, and, of course, revealed Fudge as a fake and a turncoat. People looked to him as the public savior of the moment, unlike the past where it was usually Harry Potter or Dumbledore.

Percy kept the Ministry on the straight and narrow. After he was inducted to the office a little under five years ago, he fired more than two hundred people – all of which were Death Eaters themselves or Death Eater informants. He had surrounded himself with a thick wall of obviously loyal, good members of society. He raised many of his stalwart supporters to high positions, all of them deserved.

Madam Amelia Bones was encouraged to stay as head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which she did. Charlie was accelerated from just a section leader in the Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau to the head of Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Bill was put into the position as head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation – which he detested and frequently escaped from to join in on the dirty work of the auror business. The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office was finally given an enthusiastic head with the promotion of Arthur Weasley. Charlotte Teasdale remained one of Percy's close friends and head of the Department of Mysteries. She informed Percy – who knew next to nothing about went on in that section of the Ministry despite having worked there for several months – that Fred and George held very influential positions in the Department of Mysteries, though what they did was classified unless valuable.

Percy may have abused his position as Minister of Magic to suit his needs, but everyone loyal to the cause saw it as necessary. Percy – Minister Weasley – made good use of everyone in every department, and everyone was bent on finding a way to defeat Voldemort. He was fully aware that his nepotism was blatantly obvious to the public, but at a time where people could scarcely trust their neighbors it was overlooked.

It had been surprising to Hermione who she actually did trust when it came right down to it. She trusted Ron and Harry, of course. She would always trust them. She, as she always had, trusted Molly and Arthur. Fred and George, and Bill and Charlie were in her highest of confidences. While she had never _not _trusted Percy, she had gained an all-new respect for him. She trusted Dumbledore, who was now acting as Percy's closest advisor, next to Alastor Moody. Dumbledore had retired from Hogwarts – leaving Professor McGonagall in charge and Severus Snape as Deputy Headmaster (both of whom she trusted implicitly) – to devote all of his time and resources to the Order of the Phoenix.

The Order had come up from underground two months after Ginny was captured and right at the same time as Dumbledore retired. It was now the ideal auror honor for aspiring witches and wizards. Hermione trusted Victoria, of course, and she trusted Marissa and Marcus (to her surprise), and she trusted everyone Percy had appointed into Ministry positions.

Hermione observed that if she took one step outside the Ministry or Hogwarts there wasn't a single person she trusted. She had no faith left in people, not after so many had gone to the other side.

…Malfoy… _Draco,_ she reminded herself. She trusted him. Of all people, she trusted him. For what reason she couldn't fathom, but she did. She would never tell him to his face, lest she incur his wrath, but she felt sorry for him. She empathized with him, really she did. He never called her anything but Mudblood – Granger on a good day, which were few. He had changed a lot over the past five years. At first he was determined, hell-bent you could say, on finding Ginny and killing Duncan Welsh, her known captor. Then he was quiet, introspective, and calculatingly cold. But as time wore on he became bitter, cruel, and violent. He drank excessively, normally ranting and raving in an inebriated stupor before passing out and puking.

Most odd of all it was usually Ron and Harry who sobered him up and took care of him. She knew they felt sorry for him after all that had happened. Hermione was also aware that Ron's own opinion of Draco had changed. Now Ron didn't hate Draco because he was such a prick, but he hated Draco because he was a drunken prick with a stinging tongue and rage problems. But Ron and Harry both pitied him. Draco knew this and hated them for it. But there was trust there, and when you are the three star auror partners in the Order of the Phoenix you better be damn good enough to back your position.

And they did – together. They were a team, an airtight team. Ron was most of the brawn, being the biggest of the three. Harry was the most powerful of the three, even though Ron and Draco weren't far behind. Harry was the brunt of the magic, while Ron could tackle a man any size and keep him down. Hermione suspected he too might have unreleased Blood Berserker magic. Draco put a different spin on the group. He was obviously the brains, the cold and cunning of the three. He was heartless however, and many times stopped from going too far by Ron and Harry, though, to Draco's credit, it did take both of them. In some ways, Hermione knew that Draco had taken her spot in the Trio. It didn't bother her, Draco was intelligent, but it was definitely a change.

They were the perfect team, but it was obvious who got all the attention. Ron and Harry. Every picture in the papers was of those two, the Golden Boys of Hogwarts. Draco was normally mentioned, and everyone knew he was there, but no one acknowledged him. Hermione was almost sure Draco liked it better this way.

Truth be told, Draco reminded her of Snape a bit. They both had an unappealing personality and were rather cruel individuals. They were obviously both Slytherin, and therefore pureblood-oriented and distant fellows. And they shared a penchant for the color black. Hermione never saw Draco wear anything other than black. Black commando boots, black pants, black oxford, black trench coat, and black mood – it fit him perfectly. Hermione could tell his eyes had grown harder and his face had grown harder. He'd never – to Hermione's knowledge – taken another lover or shown any interest in any other girl besides Ginny. He was along for the straight and narrow, except that he drank himself stupid nearly every night.

Hermione felt that his days of sanity – or whatever he was now – were running low. He had never been an emotionally or psychologically stable person, and this distance from Ginny was wearing him thin, changing him into a man Hermione somehow knew he wasn't. Hermione didn't know, but she suspected, that when a man like Draco chose someone, really trusted and opened up to them, gave them everything he had and needed nothing but love in return, it was especially hard for them to let the person go. People like Draco would probably react exactly like Draco did, becoming malicious and hostile. Ginny wouldn't have picked a man like this. Ginny would have picked a man like Hermione suspected Draco was. And now reality was becoming heavy on him. She saw it when she passed him in the Ministry or Order meetings. She could feel it like a heavy air weighing on him mercilessly. He had so much more darkness now – more than he'd ever had.

But then, everyone had the darkness disease now. Moan and bewail, mourn and begrudge – that was the way of people these days. And the ones that begrudged more than bewailed turned into aurors. People who mourned quietly more than moaned pitifully turned into aurors.

Many Gryffindors had become aurors than ever before.

* * *

_A Good Question_

"Why don't you go out with Ron?" Victoria asked spontaneously.

Hermione normally ate lunch with Victoria during the working week. They enjoyed each other's company, and they enjoyed their conversations. Victoria was her happiest after lunch because she was slightly hypoglycemic. She was also her bravest, Hermione noted.

Nevertheless, it was a good question, and Hermione deemed it worthy of a good answer. But first she would play with it in her head. "You think Ron and I should go out?" Hermione asked the older woman.

Victoria sighed and pushed her food around on her plate. "It's pretty obvious the two of you have a history, Hermione. Sometimes," she added with a smirk-like smile, "when he thinks you aren't looking, he watches you with mournful eyes, wishing something was different. Only I don't think he knows what."

Women of the Coven – well, women whose mother's were of the Coven – learned at an early age to analyze the opposite sex carefully. Historically they exploited the weakness of men, used it to gain power and privilege. But they had sense then learned that if you moved around a man, in his current but conscious it was not your own, it was much more successful than trying to sway him into your current. They fought like bass and hissed like cats.

Victoria knew what she was talking about when she analyzed poor Ron. Hermione almost felt sorry for him. His emotions were laid out for this woman when he didn't even understand them himself. But Victoria knew, and Hermione knew.

"He likes me because we're so different," Hermione said slowly, taking a sip of tea before continuing. "But little boys always want someone like their mother. I'm not going to give him seven children and stay at home. I don't care how well respected Coven Witch Prewett is, nor how powerful she is. Her life isn't mine. I won't make it mine."

Her voice ended with an edge of finality. But Victoria either didn't notice or didn't care. "How did it end?"

Hermione sighed again. This time in remembrance.

* * *

_Migration of the Phalangeº_

She held Ron's hand carefully in her own, watching it like a bird ready for migration. He would fly away from her, too. That seemed to be happening a lot lately. Ginny had flown away. Her parents had flown away. Harry had flown away. And now Ron was in pre-flight procedures.

Hermione – somewhere in her mind – knew it would never really last. They had too much in front of them. They had too much behind them. They were meant to be the kind of friends that kissed and decided there wasn't any magic. But both had wanted the magic and thus imagined it. At least things hadn't been lonely for them.

"We're going together – Harry and I," Ron was explaining.

Hermione was doing her best to listen, but his long fingers, twitching like a baby bird with full-grown wings and freedom written under its tail feathers, were telling her how he really felt. Shut out. In a cage. Alone. Guilty. Miserable. Self-doubt. Angered. Hermione knew their happy days of infatuation and hope were gone. They were seventeen. They weren't in love anymore. Or they hadn't ever been. Too early? Too soon? Or too different? It didn't matter anymore.

Hermione pressed his warm palm to her lips and let an accidental tear fall. She hadn't wanted to upset him, but endings always did make her cry. He shifted uncomfortably at her tears, at her fondness and sadness. But he didn't pull his hand away.

She stood, letting his wild-bird hands go. The wind stuck her hair to her damp cheeks, but she pulled it away and tried to smile. "Look me up when you still want to be friends. You've got my number!"

* * *

_A Good Answer_

That had pretty much ended that. They had seen each other in Order meeting and talked uncomfortably, Harry always there as a monitor and Draco on the sidelines as a silent satirist. It wasn't for two years of awkward words about work, the good old days, and current events that Ron and Harry finally stumbled into her apartment, very drunk, and they all laughed like it had been before they grew up. Before the war. Before the migrations.

They woke up in a mass of legs and laughter and agreed it had been too long. Hermione had gotten her boys back. They would always been her boys. And they did this three, sometimes four times a month. And Hermione was happy, because now she and Ron could talk like they used to. They could smile and laugh and argue like they used to. It was a good feeling that had escaped her for too long.

Hermione licked her dry lips and dabbed her eyes lightly, a sad smile barely there. "He flew away from me," she answered quietly. "And he never came back the same."

She was sure there were tears in Victoria's eyes, but they left, unshed. Then she smiled, sniffed and offered to pay the bill. Hermione let her and they walked out of the café together and Hermione wrapped her neck in a scarf to ward off the cold. They would normally go back to work about now, but Victoria had a special Elemental Coven meeting she needed to attend and Hermione had a feeling she'd be spending the rest of her day watching sad, Audrey Hepbourn films, trying to remember the last time she'd loved someone.

"Oh, shit!" Victoria said, taking her wand out of her robes along with several long, thin vials. She looked angry, but at herself. "I can't believe I forgot!"

"What?" Hermione asked. "Is something wrong?"

Victoria frowned and looked sideways at Hermione. "Would you be willing to do be a big, disgusting, nasty favor that you won't get enough thanks for?"

Hermione's eye twitched. "I guess…" she said uncertainly.

"Oh, you're a doll," Victoria cooed, kissing Hermione's cheeks and pushing the warm vials into her hands. "Take these to Coven Witch McGonagall for me, please," she continued. "They need to be analyzed and I can't trust anyone outside of the Order with them."

Hermione nodded and Victoria Disapparated before her eyes. Hermione caught the Day Bus instead of Apparating to gather her thoughts. It had been a while since she'd seen Professor McGonagall…Headmistress McGonagall…Minerva…

* * *

_A Student of Knowledge_

As soon as she stepped into the entrance she felt seventeen again. Sure, she was still young. Twenty-two was still young. But she'd never been alive like she had been in Hogwarts. School was her element. Learning was her god. Wisdom was her eternal sunshine. Hogwarts had been a place she would never forget, it would always hang happy in her heart, right next to her memories.

She knew McGonagall hadn't changed Dumbledore's office. She revered the man too much. Besides, Dumbledore and McGonagall had been friends for so long, even if he didn't visit on Order business weekly, they would have still stayed in touch. The old headmasters smiled (or frowned if they were Slytherins) down at her as McGonagall ushered her in.

"Oh, the vials!" she said enthusiastically. "Now I recall Coven Witch Bowman's letter. They were supposed to be here by noon," she admonished teasingly. "Why don't you just take them down to Severus, Hermione? I'm terribly busy, as you can see," she said gesturing to the piles of papers on her desk. "It appears someone thought it would be absolutely hilarious suggest to our ghosts that they were simply memories living off memories and now they've all complained to the Spirit Division. Very offended all of them."

She sighed and waved Hermione off, promising to make time for tea next week and assuming she remembered where Professor Snape's rooms were. Well she did remember but she rather thought McGonagall would forget about their tea date. Hermoine sighed and descended into the dungeons. They were cool and empty. Hermione suspected that the beginning of winter break wasn't a time that Snape had students banging down his doors. Ten days till Christmas and Hogwarts was decked in all the holiday frivolity, but you'd never have guessed it four levels down.

Hermione felt odd knocking on the door but too nervous to just open it. What if she was interrupting a very important potion and she surprised him and he added too much dragon's blood and it exploded and killed them both? Her over-active imagination was running away with her. Hermione knew Snape would used his personal cauldron in his private study, not the one he used for the class.

She opened the classroom door and saw rows and rows of desks, cauldrons, and chairs. All were empty and everything was as sparse as it had been when she'd graduated. Nothing had changed, not even the stained spot where she and Neville used to sit. She ran her finger over the back of her old chair, noting there were faded areas where her book-laden bag had worn away at the wood. It made her smile.

"A lesson perhaps, Miss Granger?" Snape's cool, liquid voice asked.

Hermione jumped in surprise, resisting the urge to shriek. Instead she just shifted her coat and scarf to her other hand and licked her lips. "No…I was just…"

"…remembering," he finished, a small, insensitive, laughing smirk on his lips.

Hermione let out a short breath of air and nodded. "Yes," she admitted quietly.

There was an awkward sort of silence for a moment and Hermione was quite sure she'd forgotten why she was there at all. Even at Order meetings Snape never talked to her. He never talked to Harry or Ron, or anyone but Dumbledore and Draco. He never even looked at her.

"While the nostalgia is touching, I have work to do. Was there something you wanted?" he said crisply, his robes cracking behind him as he made a sharp turn away from her.

His angry eyes startled her. She wasn't aware of doing anything vaguely insulting. Perhaps her presence as a Mudblood was insulting enough. "Victoria…Bowman…" Hermione stuttered, hating her fear. "She wanted you to analyze this."

Hermione dug around in the pockets of her robe and pulled out the thin vials. Looking up, Snape was still posed by the door, eyes glinting maliciously. Hermione placed them on the desk and began the loud walk to the door, her shoes clicking over the stones rhythmically. She turned and saw Snape still standing by his door, eyeing her and not the vials.

"I hope you find something helpful," Hermione said with a nod. "Good-bye, Professor."

The door clinked quietly behind her. Hermione hated feeling alone.

* * *

_The Rules for Making Friends, Part III_

Draco glared at the grave of his father. This place in the earth would forever be contaminated by his father's filth. This area was desecrated, sacrilegious, dirty. Draco made a point to visit it on the anniversary of Lucius' death every year. It was stabilizing to know the man was dead; it gave him a sense of sanity. True, Minister Weasley had been the one to kill him, not Draco as he had intended, but dead was dead. Draco wasn't going to begrudge a Weasley knocking off his piss-ant of a patriarch. He deserved what came to him.

_Son of Lucian and Marcella, _

_Husband of Narcissa, _

_Father of Draco, _

_May he rest._

That was all the epitaph said. It said too much in Draco's opinion. He was never a husband to Draco's mother, and he sure as well wasn't any father to Draco. Draco didn't know about being a son to Lucian and Marcella – neither of whom he'd ever met – but at least one line on the gravestone read true. May he rest. Not in peace, not in bliss, not in anything. Just rest. Let him be dead. Let him die. Draco didn't want anything for Lucius but death.

With that, Draco dropped the white flowers that were misfit in the gloom onto the grave and turned to leave. Potter and Weasel were standing a little ways off near a winter-dead tree. They were talking quietly, Weasel's hair sticking out disastrously in the white of the snow and the black of their clothes. Draco sneered and headed towards the two.

He resented them. He hated them. He wished with all his being they would just drop dead one day and leave him be. But they were always there. Standing in front of him, knowing he was there and following, just because he happened to be going the same direction as they were. If they expected him to stop them one day and tell them he was thankful they could go rot. All they did was pity him. And they said they didn't like him, they respected him.

What exactly was there to respect? He'd betrayed her. He'd killed innocents. He'd made a drunken ass out of himself so many times he couldn't keep count. And he'd taken every opportunity to humiliate and hate them. And there were still there, picking him up off the ground of the bars. Backing him in battles he thought he'd never live through. Supporting him when their superior ragged on him because their boss didn't trust Malfoys.

Draco had to admit they were the best. The three of them were the best of the best of the best.º They rarely lost, even against impossible odds. They were the most powerful. They were the most determined. And they were the most public. Well, Draco corrected, Potter and Weasley were the most public. More often than not Draco was pushed aside in photos of the two Golden Boys. Not that he minded. He didn't want their bottled fame. Their brewed glory. Their immortality.

He smirked at himself. How much like Snape did he sound? How much alike were their lives? It was impossible to say they were like brothers. It wasn't too far off to say they had an understanding, if not some sort of friendship. Perhaps Draco felt that Snape was the kind of man he would have wanted in a father. Not Lucius. Draco didn't know, but he didn't care.

"Ready?" Potter asked.

Draco didn't deem this worth answer and pulled out his wand instead. Potter wasn't affected by this, neither was Weasel. They had come to grips with Draco's personality. _Stunning personality though it is,_ he thought to himself. He sneered as they appeared in the Ministry. People loved and respected Weasel and Potter. They feared Draco – he made sure of at least that.

He didn't like to be approached, although several bright-eyed aurors and dark eyed women had tried. He didn't like to feel anymore – it hurt too much. Instead he grew a shell over his heart. No weakness. He might live to find her someday if he stayed hard and cold. Someday seemed like a very long time away most often. But Draco found it was easier to live in tomorrow than the past or the present.

"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

"Creeps this pretty pace from day to day

"To the last syllable of recorded time;

"And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

"The way of our dusty deaths. Out, out brief candle."º

He murmured it quiet under his breath, hoping no one heard him as he passed through the halls and along the walls.º The passageways were always loud. When he was a child and he'd accompanied Lucius to work they'd been loud with laughter and mirth, or anxiousness and excitement. Now they were loud with fear and anticipation, and hope and deadly silence. Footsteps were sonic booms. Whispers were screams. Talking a taboo. But Draco's murmur seemed to pass them by.

Perhaps they all felt it. Their fathers and brothers and sisters and mothers were candles in the dark, leading them to their dusty deaths. Their memories, their yesterdays all the way back to the beginning of magic, the struggle of white and black, lit the way for them to walk. The road was dark and the ground uneven. But if they were real, if they were strong, they would survive and have reason to blow out the candles of their past.

"Did you say something?" Potter asked as they reached their destination – Moody's office.

Draco shook his head and kept his eyes pasted firmly ahead of himself, staring at nothing and seeing everything. Potter had learned to listen to things Draco said or noticed. Draco's knowledge of Death Eaters and their minds was far more extensive than his own, and Potter knew it. Weasel was a slow learner, a slow truster, and a slow thinker, but he had good instincts. They weren't like Draco's though – honed in the enemy pits of death and betrayal.

"Well, well, well," Moody said, studying the three carefully with his blue eye. It was a habit and Draco wasn't insulted. "How are my rapscallions today? Late to work I see! New assignments call to everyone this delightful morn. Potter, Weasley, see that those greenhorn-cadets get their intimidation for the day. After all, Shacklebolt has some troops to whip in shape. Malfoy, sit down. We need to talk."

Draco watched as Potter and Weasel left Moody's office. They liked scaring the crap out of the younger aurors. Draco detested their sniveling, their innocence and vigor to go off and get themselves killed. Most were Gryffindors he recalled.

"Albus," Moody barked, turning serious and dark.

Albus Dumbledore appeared from the shadows of the far corner of the room and gazed mild-mannered at Draco. Draco forced himself not to shift uncomfortably at such an intense stare and only barely succeeded. Dumbledore was still the man Draco respected above all others. Even more than Snape. …But only a little more…

"Draco, my boy," Dumbledore said with a slow chuckle. He sat decorously on one of Moody's seats and motioned for Draco to do the same. And he did so willingly.

There was no tea, no crumpets in Moody's office. It was hard and sparse, the chairs made to get you to sit straight up and uncomfortable. Draco fought the urge to finger the golden-red medallion he wore around his neck. _I'm loyal, _he wanted to scream with it._ I'll do it if you ask. You have my confidence. Just give me yours! _

The words wouldn't come to his mouth because of pride. They had only been uttered once before, when he was young and foolish. When he was idealistic and hopeful of change he said these things to Dumbledore and it altered his life mercilessly. Draco wouldn't say them again, but only because he had said them before. They meant as much then as they did now. More maybe even, because now he knew what they really meant. He hoped Dumbledore knew this, and he was sure Dumbledore did.

"We have news," Moody said softly, his black eye sparkling.

Draco wanted so badly for those words to mean what he thought they did. After all the years – the searching, the uncertainty, the doubt, the regret, the guilt – he might have the answer. And now he would be ready. When he was younger he would have died. Now he would have killed. The words instilled hope no matter how meager they were. They were still in the language of wish. It was a language Draco had thought dead in these times. It was like Latin – people knew it, but never spoke it.

"The Benson's Scale," Dumbledore began, "which you know to detect surges of active Elemental power, has now, thanks to the efforts of Hermione Granger, Victoria Weasley, and Severus Snape, been altered."

Dumbledore had Draco's attention. They had never been able to track her before. There was stronger, darker magic out there cloaking her. She was either not there or in too many places, depending on what charms or spells or potions you used. Draco had thought the task was impossible. It nearly was. But there are some things you just can't change.

"We know that Duncan Welsh," Moody said gingerly, "has the aid of dark magic. He has a copy of the _Morte D'Mordorde_ that he has used skillfully to hide Miss Weasley. But, like before a Meeting, there are signs that the Benson's Scale picks up on – increased weather activity, drought, metaphysical magic currents, etc. We could never find Miss Weasley because we suspected the spell he used was used on quelling ancient Meetings in the days of Arthur and Merlin, thus letting him control her Elemental power and contain her however he wished. The differences in her anatomy made it nearly impossible for the Benson's Scale to detect her, especially if Welsh wasn't letting her use her powers."

Dumbledore chose then to cut in. "After analyzing the blood of several Elementals, Severus was able to extract the component that was purely Element – water, wind, fire, earth, and etc. Miss Granger and Mrs. Weasley were able to use this in combination with the Benson's Scale to begin to detect Elementals, not just the Elements themselves."

"This didn't help them if Miss Weasley couldn't use her Elemental powers however," Alastor noted.

"But there were readings," Dumbledore continued, "faint and immature, that the Granger Scale (the Elemental detecting scale – named so after its primary inventor and the person who set the idea in motion) began to pick up. At first they were thrown off as malfunctions because they could never be duplicated. The activity became more frequent and they were forced to think that, A) there was an unregistered Elemental traipsing about, or, B) Miss Weasley was beginning to break free of Welsh's dark magic."

"Your assignment," Moody said, pulling out a stack of papers as thick as Weasel's skull, "is to investigate. Investigate _ONLY! _If it really is Miss Weasley doNOT let your presence be known. We will send for reinforcements as soon as you call. You_ WILL _be careful with this one, Malfoy. You _WILL _play by the rules. Or I will skin you. Have we reached an understanding?"

Draco left Dumbledore in Moody's office. Yes, he understood. Maybe he would play by the rules. No, he would not be careful. There was no drive or will more powerful than telling Ginny the truth. Draco had been fed by it, drunk by it, and ruled by it for the better part of five years. Five years that had stewed guilt and bitterness into him like a well-spiced soup. He didn't care if she hated him and he didn't care if she never wanted to see him, just as long as she knew the truth.

If rejection was how she dealt with him so be it. But he would never reject her. He would follow her, watch her, guard her until he died. He would never let anything like this happen again. He would never let her go again. He had been saving one spot in his shelled-over heart for five years. It was for Ginny, if she wanted it. He wouldn't charge her rent, he wouldn't make her pay interest. He only wanted to know one thing: Did she trust him?

She had left not trusting him and unable to hate him. But she said she could, in time, learn to hate him. Was five years enough? Perhaps, when she came back, she would hate him, but he could earn her trust. He was beyond hoping she could love him. How could she after all he'd done? But trust him again…it meant everything to Draco.

He found Potter and Weasley stumbling out of the greenhorn introduction room, laughing their heads off at whatever bully they'd told the cadets. Potter stopped immediately at Draco's serious look. Potter recognized urgency and knowledge when he saw it, and now he trusted Draco to reveal it to his pitifully retarded cerebellum.

Draco looked at the two of them coolly, confidently. "We have a mission."

* * *

_Roman, Derived from Latin Cassus, "Empty, Vain"_

Strands of pearly white fell through Ginny's fingers. Soft as down, white as snow, thick as wool, straight as an arrow. Glorious hair. Almost too glorious for a boy. She ran her fingers through it softly, so as not to break his concentration. It had been hard, teaching him. She couldn't do the things herself, the things to show him. So she had to tell him, and that was difficult when she herself couldn't explain it. It was just her. It was in her, part of her.

Telling him it was a secret jewel had been her best description, her only remembrance. It was a secret jewel, your own and no one else's. He had liked this idea. _People had possessions_, he told her. They belonged to you or someone else. He was all about the physical, and, at four-years-old, it was hard for him to see past that.

She breathed in his hair, the sweet scent of child and familiarity. Whispering in his ear she described the feel of it, the awe and beauty the Elements had. He sat in the empty space between her crossed legs so she could feel his heart beating against his ribs. It made her feel whole, like he was still her baby in her womb, completely protected from everything…and everyone.

Even though she could not use her Elemental blood, she could still feel it. Her son was very strong in Wind, gifted in Fire. He felt more comfortable with Wind, which was different from Ginny, as her strength lay in Fire. But she could feel him try. The powers swelled within him, around him, on his skin and in his eyes. He could feel it and not release it. He was too young.

But it was okay. Half the battle was finding it in the first place. The easy part was using it. The hardest part was controlling it. Ginny could feel that his heart beat faster, but in rhythm with the Elemental surges of his blood. She could only hope that someday he would be strong enough to escape all this. Ginny had resigned herself to her isolation, her imprisonment. But she would not have the same for her son. Not her beautiful son.

Ginny felt a light breeze around them, cooling her in the Greek air, sending whispers of the Mediterranean and olives her way. And then it stopped dead and the dryness of the desert weighed upon them again.

"I'm tired, Mother," he said in a whisper lighter than the Mediterranean's had been.

"That was beautiful," Ginny said back to him quietly.

And it had been. She had not felt the Elemental powers in so long; it was like her heart was ripped out of her. She had nothing to live for except her son. Her son that looked and acted so much like his father.

"I'm very happy, Cassian," she cooed him to sleep. "You've made me very happy, very proud."

Her Cassian. Cassian to her, only to her. He was her Cassian. She could feel Cassian's heart slowing to sleep and she hummed something her mother had hummed to her, and Ginny assumed her mother's mother had sung as well.

She lifted him easily from the ground. He was so frail, so small. Ginny sometimes wondered how he wasn't swept away in the winds at all, just to soar on them forever. He looked so much like the father. His hair was thicker, and his eyes were clearly her coppery ones. But his face was the same, his nose slightly pointed, like an elf. He had the same skin, soft and pale, and the same long, long eyelashes that fluttered when Ginny kissed him.

Smoothing his hair away from his eyes, Ginny tucked Cassian under the sheets – Egyptian cotton. Only the best. She sighed lightly in the night air, a whisper on the breeze. He would sleep all the next day with the way he had exerted himself.

Not to say he was a weak boy. On the contrary. Cassian was rambunctious and at times very demanding. He liked to run and climb, and though he couldn't have a broom he liked jumping off of high things. Ginny was surprised the boy didn't have more broken bones. Cassian was wiry and lean, not chubby and round like some four-year-olds. He had no baby fat, not really even as a baby. Cassian was going to drive her crazy with his stunts one of these days…

Ginny smiled down on him and fussed over his sheets again. The truth was she just liked to look at him. He was such a beautiful boy, and really a kind boy, however judgmental he was. And he was smart – so smart! Ginny had been reading to him since birth, his gurgles and laughter ringing in her ears at the memory. He had picked up soon after and could basically read by himself at the age of four. Ginny could hardly believe his fifth birthday was coming up. Her Cassian five-years-old…

Shaking her head she stood and wrapped her arms around her waist. The Greek air was hot, even in their plain house. They had lived there for three years now, five or six miles away from the sea. It had open windows, no glass, and the doorway had no door. The ceiling was no more than a thatched roof, but magic kept it strong and magic kept the rain out of the windows and doorways. There was no tile or carpet, just hard stone beneath your feet. It was always warm, but never too hot, and food was easily accessible. They didn't want, but they didn't live extravagantly.

Sometimes, in the summer when it would get really hot they would go down to the beach and she would teach Cassian to swim in shallow pools. He didn't like the water much, but liked looking at the sea-life, the crabs and fish and starfish. Times like that she almost expected him…Draco…to come up behind her, wrap his strong arms around her middle and kiss her neck. She could see it like a dream, or a landscape.

Ginny stepped outside and felt a faint breeze. She was lucky to be able to take Cassian out that night. It mostly rained this time of year, but it was rarely cold. She had grown comfortable with Greek living, and felt almost a Grecian herself with her bare arms, flowing white and peach fold over robes, and long, loose hair. If her hair was black instead of ruby, her skin olive-dark instead of pink-white, and her eyes dark instead of metal, she would have been a Grecian. The lifestyle fit her. The food fit her. The calm fit her.

She turned from the door, knowing a storm would come, and entered her room…their room. Duncan and her room. He made her share a bed with him, but little else. He had never forced her to do anything she didn't want – as far as sex and passion went. He worshipped her and she hated him. She lived in constant fear that one day he would wake up from his daydream and realize Cassian – Ignatius to him – was not his son, she was not his wife, and she didn't love him at all.

He was an old, pathetic man to her, trying to reclaim an ignored desire born in his youth and suppressed until now. He was silver-streaked and tan, and his hands and arms spoke welcome and warmth while his eyes and smiles spoke insanity. He was intelligent, kind, respectful, attentive, and very, very insane. Unstable. As in not right in the head. As in around the bend, crazy as a coot, not all there, not right in the head, off his rocker, out of his mind, touched in the head. As in mad, mad, mad, mad, mad.

Ginny could feel him touch her thigh with calloused hands as she slid under the sheets and paid him not mind. He was asleep and not likely to notice she had been out late. He didn't like it when he couldn't watch her, but he slept like a baby when it was warm. The Egyptian-made cloth caressed her smooth skin and she couldn't help but wish they were someone's fingers…

…Draco's fingers.

* * *

_A Story About a Dragon_

Ginny woke early, as she was accustomed to these days. Cassian wouldn't be up for a long time because of last night. She would tell Duncan she thought him sick and he would fuss and read to him all day long. Ginny shook her head as she kneaded the sweet-pitas. Duncan liked those for breakfast, along with dense tea and a good edition of the paper. He would sit at the table as the pitas baked and sniff the air every so once in a while, look out the window, shake out his paper, and begin to read.

A fluttering of sheets told her to put the teakettle on the table and start baking the pitas. Duncan yawned kissed her on the check familiarly. Ginny didn't mind half so much, she saw him as a deranged and slightly dangerous uncle – not a love interest like he saw her. Ginny closed her eyes and waited for the pitas to finish. The paper shook and she knew it was about time. She didn't speak, for Duncan liked it quiet in the morning. Ginny almost liked it better, too.

"You didn't get to bed until late last night," Duncan noted casually.

Ginny froze. Just about anything could set him off. She never knew what it was going to be, or how bad his rage would come, but it always scared her. He never laid a hand on her or Cassian. He didn't have to. All he had to do was use a spell that book of his told him and Ginny would be a heap of pain and seizures. It took the Elements completely away from her, made her sick and disoriented, like she didn't know her name or where she was. It was worse than the Cruciatus she thought. But she didn't have much of a comparison to work with.

"I think Ignatius is sick," she responded quietly, smoothing her hair. "He woke me up with his moaning and said he was hot. I took him outside and he fell asleep. I shouldn't wonder if he sleeps all day."

Thankful he chose to accept this, Ginny turned outside, a wan smile on her lips. She had chores to do. Mostly Duncan left her alone in the morning. She knew how to cook from her mother's teachings, and she knew how to clean. Not that their little house needed much cleaning.

They lived simply – bout five miles away from the nearest salt water and not four minutes from fresh water. Ginny carried water from the stream in the morning to cook, wash, clean, and drink. She would usually bathe down there too. It was a shadowy pool that she preferred, upstream from where she washed her clothes but downstream from where she got the cooking and drinking water. There were sparse trees around the washing pool and drinking pool, but the bathing pool had a nice hangover of rocks and large bushes and trees – fig, date, and olive.

After she got the water and bathed she would clean the house, entertaining Cassian with games and stories of her youth, or ones she'd just made up. She would make a meager meal out of vegetables and fruits and then set to work schooling Cassian until it was time to make dinner.

Usually she didn't see Duncan until dinner, which was fine by her. She knew he worked in his lab, the only technologically advanced part of their lives. He researched in an extensive network of underground rooms from eight until six and then they ate. If it had not been for Duncan Ginny would have been perfectly content with her life.

Ginny sighed as she slipped the Himationº off her shoulders and hung it on a peg on the nearest tree. It was always too cumbersome and she couldn't imagine the Ancient Greeks actually wearing it all they time. But she wore it around the house fine enough, and it did come in handy at times. She shifted the basket of laundry off her shoulder and hiked her peach-colored Ionic Chitonº to her waist, tying it high with a cord.

Wading out in the water Ginny made a note to make Cassian take a bath. He didn't like to, but what young boy did? Ginny set to work cleaning and washing the clothes by hand, making sure to use the right kind of soap for Duncan. She pinned them up on a wire Duncan had constructed and let the air do its work. It would take twice as long today because of the humidity. But she occupied herself by bringing vas after vas of water into their simple home.

By the time she had washed herself and brought all the water into the house Duncan was in his laboratory. Ginny walked quietly into Cassian's room and sat on the end of his bed. He didn't stir, but Ginny knew he was awake. It was a motherly instinct, not a Dreamweaver one. Without her human soul she didn't have those powers any more.

The reason why she had been so good, the reason why she was the best, the reason why she was able to do things that no other Dreamweaver could do – like go into the Remnants – was because Ginny was aided. The Elements had made her powerful in more ways than one.

Ginny was an Element now, only Fire and Wind – not human anymore. It was the reason why Duncan could control her and not Cassian. You couldn't use the spell in the _Morte D'Mordorde_ on people, and when Ginny had accepted the Elements to come and save her life, to make herself the first of her kind (a Hybrid Element in human form) she knew she would never be a person again, and that she barely had been in the first place.

The only reason why she could control people's dreams, why she could send and interpret, why she could build and receive, was because of her human soul. Without it she was nothing. The Elements had aided her because fire was connected to dreams in the sense that Fire Elementals could receive and interpret dreams. Wind Elementals were connected to dreams in the sense that you could send and build dreams. It was the same when you were an Earth or a Water – Earth's had strong connections to healing, which Wind did as well, and Water had strong connections with precognition.

"Cassian," Ginny whispered, leaning into his face and blowing on his eyes. "I know you're awake…"

Cassian rarely smiled…but when he did it made Ginny's heart swell, for it was the most angelic grin she had ever seen. He was precious in every way to her, and she knew that it wouldn't last…it couldn't last…because he would be free someday and she would not.

"I wasn't nearly so tired as I was last time, Mother," he said in a whisper, knowing he wasn't allowed to speak of it in front of Duncan or ever aloud. His eyes sparkled her familiar copper color and she smiled down on him.

"I'm very impressed, Cassian," she congratulated him. And she _was_ impressed. And happy. Because now it wouldn't be too long. Soon he would be strong enough and even Duncan couldn't control him.

Cassian looked down and Ginny saw his mouth twitch. Oh, she knew a question was coming. It was probably the type of question she didn't like the answer by the looks of him. Cassian never wanted to make her sad, and he rarely made her very angry, but he was a curious little fellow and nothing could be done about that. Ginny didn't want anything done about that.

"Tell me about father," he asked her quietly.

He'd asked before. And he knew that Duncan wasn't his father. Duncan was Duncan to Cassian, nothing more. He didn't know why the man lived with them, for he wasn't any relation. Ginny was rather vague about him. She had told Cassian few things about Draco over the years. She told him that they weren't able to see Daddy, and that maybe someday he would.

But it was as good as time as any to tell Cassian about his father. Duncan wouldn't be about for a few good hours. "Alright," she said, nodding her head.

Cassian smiled widely and climbed into her lap. She couldn't help that notice how thin he was, and frail looking and yet how strong he was. Ginny returned the grin, solemnly, and began. "Your father's name is Draco Malfoy. Your name is the name of his great-grandfather, and Ignatius is a name that runs in my family, meaning "fire within." Thus, Cassian Ignatius Malfoy – you," she said poking him lightly on the chest and kissing his nose.

"What does he look like?"

"Well," Ginny said, drawing it out. "He had blonde hair, just the same shade as yours. You have his lips too, and his nose, straight and narrow. It's his mother's nose – your grandmother. You have my eyes of course," she fluttered them outrageously, "because your father's were silvery-steel. And your skin is the exact same color…"

"What's he like?"

"He's very smart – just like you! And he's very good at Quidditch."

"I wanna play Seeker!"

"That's his position!"

* * *

ºPhalange – scientific word for fingers and toes

ºThe three of them were the best of the best of the best. – shamelessly stolen from _Men in Black_

º"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow/ Creeps this pretty pace from day to day/ To the last syllable of recorded time;/ And all our yesterdays have lighted fools/ The way of our dusty deaths. Out, out brief candle." – Shakespeare, _Macbeth_, Act 5, Scene 5

º…he passed through the halls and along the walls. – taken from Fiona Apple

ºhimation (hi-MAY-shun) – The Greeks wore this as a sort of large, cloth shawl. It is fairly light and small compared to the rest of their wardrobe.

ºIonic Chiton (i-ON-ci SHI-ton, 'I' as in sit) – Grecian women wore this along with a Himation during the Archaic Period. It is basically a square piece of fabric tied with a cord around the torso. The blouse is called a Kolpos and it ranges in colors and elaborateness. It is a sophisticated dress, sheer with no over fold and is fastened with pins at the shoulders.


	16. The Prodigal Son

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN:**

**The Prodigal Sonº**

* * *

_That Sinking Feeling_

The air was moist and generous when Draco Apparated fifteen miles away from their destination. He, Potter, and Weasel were told that there would probably be a lot of Detection Charms and Anti-Apparition Fields on the way, so they best walk in during the early morning and be cautious. Draco knew that the ocean couldn't be more than two miles away; he could smell it. They would more or less follow the coast and then cut up north to their destination.

Draco led the way in their little expedition, letting Weasel and Potter chat quietly behind while Draco used his senses and his instincts to watch out for danger. Over the years he had become rather paranoid about being watched or followed or tracked and developed charms and spells and potions that detected danger. This was one of the several reasons he was assigned to Potter and Weasel – they didn't have Granger to be smart for them and now Draco had to do it. It wasn't that bad. At least he could be standoffish and distant.

The sun was just rising as they closed in on the area the Elemental activity had occurred. The main reason they – _Granger and Bowman_ – had got so excited about this activity was because it was the first in nearly five years. Draco, and other Elementals, McGonagall especially, had experienced troubles controlling and detecting Elemental powers in the world. A lot of the time Draco would wake up at night in a sweat and know something was wrong but what exactly he couldn't tell.

He guessed it all started that day he passed out, the day she had been taken. It seemed so long ago, centuries, but he could recall the feeling of emptiness perfectly. He felt it when he woke up in the night those times, and he felt it when he was utterly alone. McGonagall simply had problems controlling her power, as many other high level Elementals did. Bowman – well, she was a Weasley now – theorized that her status as a scale between the Elements had been displaced while under control of Welsh. Bowman said that she had an effect on the magic, not the people, and when she was restored problems would be solved.

Draco knew what was wrong with him though. He had felt it during their time together. He was tied to her. He was tied to her magic along with her spirit, herself. There was no way he could ever escape her, or _WANT_ to escape her now that he was so tangled in her. It had been a safe feeling, being in love and without a care. He was wrapped up in her all the time, but she was wrapped up in him too.

…Still, Draco realized that nothing would be the same now. Nothing could go back to being the way it was. And it made him sad at first, and then very angry. The rage he had been building, saving in him for this man, this Duncan Welsh, had been directed at many people, but never died or diminished. Draco expected that in the next few hours it would.

"There it is," Potter said quietly.

The midmorning sun beat upon them, magnified by the moisture in the air and sending a trail of sweat down Draco's neck and back. There was no doubt this had to be the place. From their vantage point in the rocks he could see the house was made of creamy cement and had a ratty, thatched roof. There were open windows and doors, and about a half a kilometer away there was a green area and a small stream.

"He keeps his labs underground," Draco observed, leaning over a rock and looking for any sign of life in the house. "He's arrogant, there aren't any charms around the house itself, just the ones we had to sneak by to get here."

"We should call the ministry now," Harry said, taking out a communication device and using it to silently contact Moody at headquarters. Harry listened at the device for a moment and nodded. "They've already broken the first shield and Apparated not five miles from here. They'll be here in the hour. We're supposed to stay where we are." Then he turned a little red, "I'm supposed to hog-tie you, Malfoy, if you try and go into that house."

Draco merely sneered at him and sat down quietly. Soon the troops would be here and he could get out. Draco felt a sharp pain in the back of his head, like he'd been hit with a spell and then a rock. Blearily he pulled his wand and tried to fend off his attackers, but there seemed to be all too many.

Shouting in the background led him to believe Weasel and Harry were fighting as well, but Draco couldn't keep conscious any longer. He fell to his knees and then fell off the rock, sliding down the crags until he hit the ground.

* * *

_The Prodigal Son_

There was a sticky substance holding Draco's eyes together when he tried to open them. And when he tried to move his hands he found they were tied behind his back. And when he tried to move his feet he found they were tied together as well. Draco shook his head and spat out some blood that had been sitting in his mouth. Then, wiping his eyes and cheeks on his respective shoulders he saw he was in a dark room with a small, horizontal slit of light coming from near the ceiling.

"Damn it!" he swore to himself. It wasn't like him to miss the signs. It had been quiet…too quiet. There was no sign of danger, nothing to tip him off, except the complete safeness of the place. Those were the signs he was supposed to look for, and because he was so distracted he hadn't noticed them. This all was his fault.

"Malfoy!" Weasel hissed. "Is that you?"

"Yes, damn it, who else would it be?" he hissed in reply, straining to see the red hair. But his eyesight was clearing up and soon he saw Potter and Weasel, both sitting awake with their hands and legs tied on opposite sides of the wall.

"You sound like crap and we can't see," Potter growled at him. "We thought there were other people in the room, you know, other prisoners."

"Just us, I can see fine now," Draco murmured, looking for a door. There, in the corner of the dirt room, was a wooden door with no handle and no way too look out. He frowned and tried to get up but he found his legs were paralyzed.

"We're paralyzed too," Weasel said darkly. "I never passed out, he somehow got all our wands and used them against us. Mine Stupified me and then paralyzed my legs only. Harry's nearly killed him, and yours made you fall off the cliff and cast some different spells I've never seen. We've been down here nearly fifteen minutes and no one's come down yet. I think we may have run into some automatic response system…"

It made sense to Draco, and he nodded and looked out the window again. They had forty-five minutes for someone to either find them or kill them, or the troops would come and hopefully defeat this Welsh bastard.

A soft sound at the door drew Draco's attention, and he wished to the gods he had his legs. There was a lot of clinking and clattering, and then pushing and punching at the door. Draco held his breath in anticipation, it could be anyone…even her…

The door cracked open a little, but Draco couldn't see anything in the shadow. He coughed and the door closed a little, but then opened again. Potter and Weasel were dead silent. Then, very slowly, a tiny figure slipped into the room and closed all but an inch of the door behind itself. It was a child. A very small child… It had to be hers. It must be her child.

"Hello, who are you?" Weasel said gruffly, licking his lips and shaking his head. Draco could tell the spell of blindness was fading away because Weasel began rubbing his eyes on his shoulders and blinking a lot.

Draco gasped as copper eyes flashed in the half-light…her eyes…her child… A platinum-haired little angel stepped out of the shadows and pierced Draco with youthful, thoughtful, intelligent eyes…Ginny's eyes. Draco was dumbstruck. In the boy Draco could see a reflection of himself at the age of five – short, bone-thin, pale-skinned, angular, and cautious but curious. The boy stood perfectly still for a minute or two, just looking at Draco, and Draco looking at him. The boy appeared perfectly calm, his hands at his sides, his feet inches apart, and his head just noticeably cocked to the left. Draco knew it was a disguise for the greatest level of curiosity. Draco had seen it before because he had done it before.

"What's your name?" Draco said quietly. He yearned for the boy to speak, to say his name was something that ended in Malfoy. It had to be his son. It had to be. Unless…unless it was Voldemort's son…or Welsh's son… But the boy looked just like him! He _HAD_ to be the father!

The boy turned his eyes to Potter and Weasel briefly, then back to Draco. "Some call me Ignatius…some call me Cassian," he replied in a small, confident voice.

Draco swallowed. "What does your mother call you?" he asked anxiously.

"Cassian."

For a very long time Draco stared at the boy and the boy stared right back at him. It seemed on the very brink, on the edge of their minds, a connection. Draco felt it and wanted it to be real, and strong.

The boy, Cassian, licked his lips. "Mother says I'm not supposed to come down here. But she doesn't know because she's cleaning the house. She thinks I'm asleep."

Draco nodded and moved slowly to a more comfortable position. "You're very smart, Cassian. Did you get that from your mother or your father?"

Cassian seemed to think for a long time, sometimes looking over at Potter and Weasel, who had the most astonished and bewildered looks on their faces. They suspected what Draco wished for so much, that Cassian was Draco and Ginny's son. "Mother's really smart, but she says my father was Head Boy at Hogwarts and the smartest person she ever met. I want to be just like him."

Then the boy frowned and knitted his eyebrows. "Why are you down in Duncan's rooms? Are you his friends? Duncan's a bad man…mother says so… I have to be good anyway and I don't want to. Mother says someday I'll be able to defeat him, when I'm older. I want to defeat him now. I don't think you should be friends with him because he's mean and hurts Mother."

And Cassian rambled on like that for a little while longer, the whole time Draco's eyes opened wide, trying to memorized everything the boy said and how he said it and how he looked and the exact pitch of his voice. He only vaguely noticed that Potter and Weasel were able to see now and were talking quietly behind Cassian.

When Cassian stopped Draco nodded gravely in understanding. "We aren't friends of…Duncan. We're here to arrest him. We're aurors, all three of us. We'd really appreciate it if you could help us, Cassian. Duncan _is_ a bad man, and he wants to hurt people, and your mother. If you let us out we'll help you defeat him."

Cassian seemed to think this over for a moment then he nodded and sat down beside Draco's feet and put his hands on them. "I'm sorry if I burn you. Mother taught me, but I'm not very good yet."

Then the boy closed his eyes and began breathing really slow. At first nothing happened. But after a moment or two the ropes began to get red, and then, surprising Draco, burst into flames. The rope incinerated and hem of Draco's pants caught on fire. The little boy put it out with his hands and didn't even flinch. Draco vaguely remembered Ginny being able to do that. The boy must be a Fire Elemental like her.

Cassian did the same thing to Draco's hands and it hurt like hell but Draco was thankful anyway. Draco still couldn't move his legs however, and this was a problem. He told Cassian that and he seemed to think for a moment, and then sat down by Draco's legs again. Draco could tell the boy was getting very tired, and he wasn't sure he could defeat Welsh with out Potter and Weasel, but he would certainly try.

"This is harder," Cassian said quietly. "I've never done it before, and I've only seen Mother do it once. She's very good at it, but I don't get sick a lot."

He was going to heal Draco! His eyes bulged as he recalled his mother doing the exact same thing for him when he had the cancer-type disease. A chill sensation swept Draco's body and he shivered. Slowly, cautiously, Cassian touched Draco's legs and concentrated hard, sweat beads rolling down his neck. When Draco began to have feeling he had the boy stop for fear of over exerting himself. Draco knew that tingliness was the first sign his legs were becoming functional.

Cassian sat on the ground coughing and wheezing for a few moments, as though he were out of breath. His eyes drooped and Draco could tell he was exhausted. As soon as Draco was able to stand he hobbled over to Weasel and Potter and sat down, not being able to bend his legs enough to squat. He began tugging at their ropes in hopes they would loosen themselves, but they didn't.

"I'm going to go after him alone," Draco said to the both of them.

"Look, Malfoy, you're good and everything, but you don't even have your wand," Potter said sensibly, frowning and trying to move his legs without success.

Weasel's eyes darkened and he frowned. "No." He shook his head. "No." Then he looked over at the boy, Cassian, who looked ready to pass out. "Harry, Malfoy's right." Then he turned to Draco and looked him hard in the eye. Draco had never seen Weasel like this. "Look, we all can tell this is yours and Ginny's son. We just have to look at him. Get out of here, take Ginny and Cassian and get out. Run as far as you can until you meet up with the troops." Gritting his teeth, "And if you don't survive, Malfoy, if you get Ginny or her son killed, I'll rip your heart out and eat it!"

It didn't take Malfoy a long time to decide. He looked at Potter, who was frowning, and Weasel, who was frowning for a different reason, and nodded. He was going to get Ginny and Cassian out of here before they could get hurt. It was only a matter of time before they got caught, and Draco wanted to be gone when they were. "I'll do it. I'm not looking back."

Finally, Draco could see Potter conceding and Weasel stopped frowning. Cassian was standing silently by Draco's side, his eyes fixed on Weasel's red hair.

"I'm Ron," he said to Cassian. "I'm your mum's older brother. And you tell her, when you see her, that I loved her and never stopped thinking about her. No one did."

Cassian nodded at this and then looked up at Draco. Not sure how to carry a child, Draco scooped him up in one arm and held him under the legs, supporting his back with the other arm. Cassian immediately put his arms around Draco's neck and Draco walked out the door without a look back.

The floor plan was simple, and Draco could hear noises from down the hall and saw the stairs near him. He went up and noticed that it led into the sun, daylight, noon. The troops should be here by now. Draco hurried around the house and found the door.

As soon as he stepped in his eyes widened and he almost dropped Cassian, who appeared to have passed out. Ginny was on the floor, her red hair splayed around her, face down on the ground. Welsh was standing over her with a manic glint in his eyes.

"I wouldn't have to punish her if she'd just cooperate," he said, crazy tones lacing his words that would otherwise be sensible. "She's just sooo beautiful…she can't help it."

Draco's eyes went from Ginny's small form to Welsh. He'd aged well, considering he had to be going on sixty, and he was broader and thicker than Draco. Still, Draco thought he could take him, wand or no wand.

"What'd you do to her, Welsh?" Draco hissed, circling Ginny's body. Welsh circled opposite him, always staying a good distance away. Draco had a feeling Welsh had left his wand in his other robes.

"She wouldn't love me, so I punished her," he replied easily. Then he smiled darkly, a slimy grin Draco never forgot. "It's better when she screams though…"

Draco growled and set Cassian down on a table. He moaned a little but curled up and slept. "Auror's will be here any time, old man. They're less then fifteen minutes away. Closer even. You'll never get out of here alive – not with her, not with my son."

"Ignatius is my son," Welsh said darkly, his eyes lowering and then going to Ginny. "Mine and Ginevra's."

Draco shook his head. Draco's eyes were more powerful, more piercing than Welsh's dead black. Draco knew Welsh was going to make a dash down the stairs, try to retrieve his wand. He was going to have to stop him before he reached. But Draco wasn't sure he could yet, the paralyzing charm wasn't fully worn off. So he had to keep him talking.

"Can't you see him? He looks just like me," Draco said, playing on Welsh's apparent weakness. "He told me you're the bad man, that he doesn't like you because you hurt Ginny." Draco smirked. "I don't like you either."

He was strong, Draco would give him that, but Draco was fast, even despite his slight paralysis. Draco dodged the first fist easily enough, only to come into contact with a second. Draco felt as though his lungs would explode. He had no breath. Gasping around and coughing, Draco grabbed the chair supporting him and slammed it in Welsh's face and chest. A large splinter lodged itself into Welsh's cheek and he howled in pain, grasping at it wildly.

Taking this chance to gain the advantage, Draco punched him square in the stomach, making the man double over in pain again. Draco took a chunk of Welsh's hair in his hand and began to slam his knee into Welsh's face in jerky motions until Welsh sank to the ground.

Welsh, spitting blood, fell on the ground on his hands and knees and sputtered. Draco watched him carefully but pulled the limp body of Ginny gingerly into a corner, putting Cassian in her lap. He was glad neither of them were able to see the fight, it was about to get ugly.

When Draco turned around again he didn't see Welsh. Fear flooded his mind. If Welsh had gotten to a wand Draco was done for. He'd be killed without much trouble.

"_AAAGGHHHH_!" Welsh yelled from behind Draco.

There was a sharp, stinging pain in his left shoulder and Draco realized he'd been stabbed. He couldn't feel anything but pain. Draco wheeled around to see Welsh with a knife in each hand and murder written on his face.

He had no form, Draco noticed, as Welsh charged him with both knives raised high. Draco dodged easily enough and was able to grab Welsh's right hand. Draco dodged the knife in the man's left hand easily enough and put pressure on one of Welsh's nerves. The knife in his right hand dropped and Draco kicked it aside swiftly. He only barely had time to block Welsh's next attack. The blade of the knife bit into Draco's left forearm, his already injured arm, as he used it to block his body and face. It was painful, but adrenaline gave Draco power and anger.

Draco swung at Welsh's face and hit him in the eye. Welsh stumbled back and moved anxiously from one foot to another. "You almost had enough, boy?!" he taunted, slashing his knife at Draco from a distance. "Come on! Who are you kidding?"

"Shut up, geezer," Draco spat, sneering and preparing for the next attack.

It came more swiftly than Draco had expected and the tip of the blade nicked him on the dodge. Welsh laughed manically and licked the blade, his smile wide and crazed. Then he swept at Draco low and Draco kicked the man's hand with his boots. They were heavy, steel-tipped, and dangerous. The knife flew out of Welsh's right hand and several bones snapped. Welsh screamed and curled around it for a moment before lashing out again and swinging with his left hand. Draco dodged and punched him in the stomach.

"The aurors will be here any second," Draco said softly, "just give up. Ginny's mine now."

"_NOOOOO!!!_"

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, for Welsh redoubled his attack and struck Draco several times before Draco could fend him off. Draco felt blood sliding down his shoulder, forearm, and now lips. He must be a sight to see. But he would not lose, not after all he'd been through.

Faking with his left, Draco swung hard with his right and caught Welsh off-balance. Draco continued to back Welsh into a corner and slam his head against the wall repeatedly. And when Welsh fell to the ground Draco straddled his waist and continued to beat the hell out of his face. Blood, certainly not Draco's blood, blurred his vision but he couldn't stop himself. All the rage and anger and bitterness were flowing out into this fight, and Draco wasn't about to let go.

* * *

_Your Hands_

Later, Draco vaguely recalled being drug away from the fight after aurors charged the small house. He seemed to remember a lot of red and a lot of anger, but he sat comatose as Harry and Weasel were led up the stairs, staring almost disgusted with Draco. But Draco knew what they had never known.

It was good to kill a man with your bare hands.

* * *

_Comfortable in Your Other Skin, Part IV_

Cassian sat in Ginny's lap in the white hospital room. He was sound asleep, but Ginny knew that she couldn't leave him. Cassian had done some pretty brave things, or so she heard from aurors that were on the scene. She was proud of him, proud that he would be able to control his powers so well after so little practice. She brushed her hands through his hair and smoothed his white hospital gown while she hummed a familiar tune.

She had come to while aurors were ransacking her house. Well, not her house. A place she had stayed. They were investigating everything and a medi-wizard was tending to her and Cassian. He had said that their wounds were minor and it was mostly exhaustion, and that a few days in Mungo's would make him feel safe. Ginny inhaled at the thought of being safe. She was now. Cassian was safe now…

For so many years she had forgotten what it had been like to feel safe. She had tried to protect Cassian from so much, but it hadn't done a lot of good. Welsh was still insane, even though he went through good and bad times. He still hurt Ginny, and inadvertently hurt Cassian. She hated him. She wanted him to die so much, but she knew he wasn't. He had survived a brutal attack and was being treated so he would be fit to stand trial. Most likely, after that, he would be sent to Azkaban to rot. No one received the Demenator's Kiss anymore.

…She had been told that when talking to the medi-wizard. He had looked at her oddly and said, "We don't give Demenator's Kisses anymore, Ms. Weasley. Minister Weasley – your brother – outlawed them years ago."

Her brother outlawed them? Her brother was Minister of Magic? Her Percy? Her Perfect Prefect Percy? Minister? It was almost too much for her. So much had happened and she'd never known about it. She didn't know anything that had happened in the past five years. Not that she hadn't tried – Welsh flat out refused it. After a time she had given up hope that people were even looking for her.

So much had changed. Percy had five children. George was married and had two children. Bill was head of the Department of International Cooperation. Charlie was head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Her father was head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. So much had happened and she thought she'd never catch up. But not only that, it wouldn't be the same when she did.

Sure she'd get used to the differences, she'd know the dates, but she'd never have memories from them. She hadn't gone to George's wedding. She'd never know the first steps of any of her nieces and nephews. She'd never get to share in the jokes or the sadness or the hope. She'd lost time. She'd been tossed into a vortex and though she and her son had come out unscathed, they were without memory. It was disturbing to know she didn't fit anymore in a place that was made for her.

How was she going to tell her mother she was no longer a Dreamweaver? How was she going to explain that she wasn't human? How was she going to explain…what she looked like?

She was thankful that no one but Cassian and the doctors had seen her yet. Cassian knew her, loved her, and accepted her, even though she couldn't control her powers enough to maintain her human appearance. The control would come, but she had become unfamiliar with it over the years, never even touching it because of Welsh's spell. When the spell was broken she'd felt the floodgates stop and power had attacked her. She'd made it so she controlled the flames, but the more subtle aspects of her hair, eyes, and skin eluded her. She looked like a fake.

And even though she knew her family was waiting right outside that door, that her mother and her father and her brothers and their children even were all waiting anxiously for her to "feel well," she knew she couldn't see them like this. Sure, they would say they understand, but deep down they would see her as Ginny saw herself. She was a freak. She wasn't human. Only Cassian understood her and he wasn't even five.

Ginny felt like crying. She couldn't. She knew how, but her body, this inhuman husk of a body, didn't know how. That's how she thought of it, as a husk. Her soul, her Element soul lived inside an empty, unappetizing husk. She didn't like the containment. There was a secret longing to escape and fly free where she belonged. But she wouldn't, because she remembered what it was like to be human. She remembered loving it, and she wanted to love Cassian and be there with him through everything.

Ginny sighed quietly and tried again. She would control this part of her. She would own it the way it was trying to own her. She would appear normal. Cassian shifted in her lap and Ginny was reminded to keep the noise down. He could probably feel the Elemental powers very well right now, especially considering how raw Ginny's were and how close he was to her, emotionally and physically.

An interruption deluded her mind and she glared at the nurse that entered the room. She was a young girl with blonde hair and blue eyes. She was very pretty, but she looked scared. Ginny would be scared too if she saw someone like that…like her…

She cleared her voice, "Your family wants you to know that they wish to see you, and they want to know if you are feeling well enough to see them."

Ginny didn't answer for a moment, then pinned the girl with a glare and suppressed the urge to set her hat on fire. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Tell them to go home then."

"But –"

Ginny cut her off with a glare. "You think I'm cruel? You think I'm heartless? You pitiful _CHILD! GET OUT! GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT!_"

The girl couldn't run out fast enough. The door closed behind her and Ginny regretted waking Cassian up. He stared at her blearily for a moment, rubbing his eyes. Then he fell asleep against her stomach again. She ran her fingers through his hair to calm her down.

She had overreacted.

But Ginny was twenty-one-years-old. She'd lived five years of her life in captivity, trapped in Fire and Wind. She couldn't escape from it. If she had any reason to be angry at anyone it was because they tried to tell her what to do. She wouldn't let them. She didn't want to be owned by anyone anymore…

Inhale…exhale…inhale…exhale…inhale…exhale…

That was the way of it for a few minutes. She needed to focus on this one thing. Everything that Ginny had worked for she had gotten. She'd worked at being a Dreamweaver; even though she could no longer be one. She'd worked at being an Elemental; doing the craft as best she could, even though it got her kidnapped. She'd even worked hard as a student, even though she'd never finished Hogwarts.

Soon she began to feel it like she had been. The quiet, the communion and connection with Cassian helped a little. He would never have to know what it would mean to be without this. She would protect him against it. She knew he was doing it subconsciously, but it touched her all the same. Cassian's Elemental powers were lending to hers, lending them what control they'd learned in his few short years. It served as a reminder, and Ginny did something she never thought she'd be able to do. Ginny shared back with him the ancient powers and histories of their shared Elements. She would make him strong enough to protect himself now.

Exhale…

Ginny opened her eyes and was content. The thing was done. She was human looking, though never human inside. She looked at her skin, and upon seeing it was normal smiled and formed a small ball of fire in her open palm. She'd started the long journey of training again. It would be months before it was the same as it once was, but this was a very big step. Somehow, Ginny felt ready.

* * *

_The Part that Dies_

Draco sat alone before his fireplace. A bottle of Odgens rested lazily on the armrest, his fingers supporting it at the lip. The fire cracked, and he thought about Ginny. This had been what he'd done nearly every night for the past five years. He would get up with a headache, go save the world, get no recognition, and then drink himself pissed. The next morning it would start all over again. He didn't pretend to think the alcohol eased the pain. The alcohol increased it. But that was the masochist part of him coming through. He didn't like the pain necessarily, but he knew he deserved it. Just the thought of Ginny, year in, year out, dying more each day…

He took a long swig of the bottle and chuckled darkly. Yes, he deserved all of this. Maybe more. Sitting in this house all alone…the house of his fathers…his father's fathers…his father's fathers' fathers…evil men…dead men…damned men…dark men…wicked men… So few good men come from the Malfoy line, Draco reminded himself. They didn't survive; they died. But still, even in the end, they had been good men, and Draco swore he would die one of those men. He would not be his father. Not ever.

The fire cracked loudly and brought his attention to the problem at hand. Ginny… After years of missing her, of dreaming about her, of needing her, of craving her…Draco was scared. He didn't deal well with rejection. He never had. And now, the ultimate rejection riding the storm, he had to think how he would win her. He could offer her money. A good house. She'd never want. Her son would never want. He could be a father – a good one he was sure. Cassian could get the best education anywhere he wanted.

He wasn't scared to offer these things because they were things he could stand to lose. Draco didn't care for gold or power or adoration or anything like that any longer. He could live in an apartment overlooking more apartments, filthy and small, and he wouldn't care anymore. He stayed in his father's house to punish himself, to remind himself never to be like that.

Draco wanted to badly to offer his love, but what if she rejected that? She could reject the money, the material items, and power. But if she rejected his love…his trust…he might die. He just wouldn't want to live anymore.

He'd heard she wasn't seeing people yet and it had been forty-eight hours since Harry, Weasel, and he had rescued her. Draco was receiving a First Class Order of Merlin for his excellence and the Cross of Gryffindor for his bravery. He scoffed at these prizes. He already had the Purple Heart of Rowena for his intelligence and mental stamina under battle and Half-Moon of Morgaine for his superior battle tactics. Draco had prizes, he could have fame, he could _HAVE _anything. But he only wanted one thing…two now. He wanted Cassian…

She'd named him well. A good name of his family. Draco didn't know what he would do if he found his son was named Diablo or Lucian or Phineas or Drake or Nero or Brutus, like many of his ancestors were called. Cassian…Roman and distinguished…an adult name he would have to grow into…_KASH_-un…it had a good ring to it, successful, Slytherin but noble. She had done perfectly. Cassian Ignatius… Draco hesitated at Malfoy. It would sound good…but he wasn't named that. Not yet at least. Draco would always accept Cassian, he even owned the boy a wizard's life debt, and Cassian would always be a Malfoy to Draco. But Ginny would need to marry Draco if Cassian were to no longer be a bastard. No son of Draco was going to be a bastard. No Malfoy was going to be a bastard. Malfoys didn't have bastard children like some Slytherin families. There were so many bastard Flint children it was disgusting.

Draco was going to have to make Ginny see. There was nothing left to be decided. Draco took another long drought from the Odgens bottle and he smiled self-satisfied.

The door opened silently, the only cue that there was someone else in the room. It was his mother. She didn't live there anymore. She and Lupin were married now, had been for three years. Draco, Snape, and Dumbledore had been the only ones invited, and the only ones who came. It was solemn, silent, and full of quiet passion. Draco didn't like his mother being married to a werewolf. But, they had agreed to not have children, and that was nearly good enough for Draco. Though Lupin tried very hard, Draco never responded to any attempts at friendliness, something that irked his mother to no end.

"Draco," she said from behind him, her voice cool as a spring breeze. Her hands fluidly took the bottle from him, but he barely even noticed. He was far too drunk. "Why do you do this to yourself?" she whispered sadly, placing the Odgen's on the table.

"Go away, Mother," he said quietly. "Just go away."

He could feel the air in the room go still and he closed his eyes. "I won't. I will _NOT_ let you drink yourself into this…this _oblivion_ once again. Go to her…talk to her, Draco. I know you miss her…you told me you_ loved_ her!"

Draco stood sharply and wheeled on his mother. He saw Lupin was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and a look of disgust on his face. Well, he wasn't alone; Draco was disgusted with himself as well. "What would you know, Mother? You married Lucius! Leave me be! I'll be bitter all I want!"

He felt shame for not feeling guilt over yelling at his mother. It wasn't the first time he'd done it over the years. He'd done it more frequently as of late however. He hated to see her big blue eyes fill up with tears, because when he looked in those eyes, he knew who he saw in them…Lucius. Damn that man! Even now, even after all those years of death he was still alive.

His mother rushed out of the room, just as she always did, so easily hurt. Lupin stayed, and Draco picked up the liquor and took a long drink before falling in his seat before the sofa. "What are you looking at?" Draco growled, not even bothering to look at the older man.

Lupin snorted, looking up Draco's disheveled appearance, and said, "Nothing much."

Draco heard the door slam into the frame. For a moment he closed his eyes and thought. _Nothing much._ The bottle of Odgens crashed into the fireplace, splintering into several dozen pieces. The fire roared with the alcohol and Draco found more and more things to break and destroy in his father's office. Several crystal vases, a glass picture frame, china plates, figurines, and precious stones found their way broken and shattered against walls. Chairs were thrown and tables were tossed until Draco collapsed on the floor and screamed in agony. He hated himself more than ever.

* * *

_A Modest Proposalº_

Draco woke to a foot in his rib and water being poured on his face. He sputtered and coughed and finally turned over and sat up. His head felt like it were split in three or four very large pieces, and all he wanted to do was puke. Looking up through bleary eyes he saw a distorted red head and a distorted black head. Potter and Weasel.

"Get up, you dirty sod," Weasel said, prying him in the ribs again. Draco saw they had been spewing water at him, because when he looked up Weasel took a drink and spit on him.

Draco tried to take his feet out from under him, but Weasel was too quick and Draco was too hung over. Weasel just laughed at him and Potter offered him a solemn hand up. Draco, as usual, didn't take it. "It's Sunday. What are you two doing here? Can't a man get hangovers anymore?"

Potter shrugged and handed Draco a Good Morning Brew that tasted awful but really did its job. Draco coughed again and then nodded ever so slightly to Potter. Gods, he hated that man.

"We thought," Potter said, looking away from Draco at the mess.

"_You_ thought," Weasel corrected, sneering at Draco.

Potter nodded however and said it again. "I thought that since Ginny was seeing people now that you'd like to come over to the Burrow. She's home now…and Cassian's with her. And Cassian has been asking for you."

Draco blinked. Asking for him? "Does he…does he know?" Draco asked cautiously.

Weasel shook his head vigorously. "No, thank the gods Ginny had enough sense not to tell him it's you that's the father. Not like you deserve him. Not like you even deserve Ginny."

"Ron," Potter whispered, throwing his friend a look. Weasel just kept glaring at Draco. Potter sighed and held up his hand. "I think you're missing out on something, Malfoy, I really do. Cassian is a fantastic kid, he's very smart, but every boy needs a father."

Potter took a deep breath and looked Draco in the eye, "Every kid needs a father. I never had one, and I don't want any kid to have to go through what I did. And if you don't do it I am. I'm going to ask Ginny to marry me."

"You _bastard_," Draco hissed, standing up to full height, not caring how disheveled or worn he looked. "_You bastard_…" Seething quietly for a moment, Draco gritted his teeth and tried to restrain himself from doing anything that he might regret. No, he would never regret punching Potter in his filthy face, but he would no doubt be punished at work. "Get out of my house…_NOW!_"

"Gladly," he heard Weasel say. There was a simultaneous double pop and he knew they had Disapparated.

There was no way he was going to let Potter take Ginny from him.

* * *

_Great, Big, Happy Family_

Molly Weasley hummed and trilled as she went through her morning routine. Most people would think that a grandmother of her esteemed respectful age would send a younger woman off to do the work, but this is what Molly Weasley did. She was happy with it. She was proud of it. Most of all, for the first time in a very long time, Molly Weasley felt very complete.

Her daughter was home. Finally, after five years, her daughter was home. It had been so long since she had seen Ginny, and truthfully not much had changed. Ginny still had a youthful face and complexion. Her hair was still that cherry-fire red and her eyes a chipped, copper color. The only thing now was that Ginny was a mother too. Ginny held herself differently, she spoke differently, softer, more commanding. She was soon laughing after a few days at home. A girl was always in need of her home, no matter how old she was.

Molly was surprised how normal she seemed to fit in here. She would have thought that Ginny would have a hard time adjusting, and perhaps she was but wasn't showing for the sake of Cassian…

Cassian! Such an adorable boy! No doubt a Malfoy, which didn't surprise Molly really. Not that Molly was surprised much anymore. She'd seen Ginny's visions when she was pulled up from the Remnants. She'd felt Ginny's mind the day she was kidnapped. A mother knew, and as far as Molly was concerned, a mother knew how to keep secrets, too.

The first night Ginny was back she had crept into Molly's arms late at night and told her everything, and tried so desperately to cry but couldn't. Molly was a mother; a mother accepted and tried hard not to judge. But Molly thought Ginny had done well by young Draco Malfoy. Just look, he was one of the leading aurors in England, he had a prestigious reputation for being a Death Eater hunter, and he was very well off. Sure, rumor had it that he was insane, he was bitter, he was a drunk, and he delighted in killing, but Molly had learned to weather these things like she always had – with a good grain of salt.

Men did odd things when their lovers died. Men did odd thing when their lovers were stolen, too, apparently. Ginny's feelings had told her so much about this man who was going to marry her daughter. The feelings she'd shown to Molly the day she was captured had shown enough love for them to make it. Molly was sure all she needed was for Draco to come around.

Well, of course when Narcissa had shown up, poor Remus trying to calm her down, Molly began forming a plan. Narcissa, as nice as the woman was, was a very emotional person, and when her son had told her to leave him alone, she had taken it as 'he doesn't love me and thinks I'm worthless' and blah-blah-blah. Molly had six sons and at one point all of them had said it to her in not the nicest of fashions. Boys were, in a way, more temperamental than girls. At least girls were easier to crack open than boys.

Narcissa had been all hot and bothered about her son not loving her anymore but the more Molly heard the more she understood. The reason Draco had told Narcissa to leave was _BECAUSE_ he loved her so much, and her opinion of him was so important to him, that he didn't want her to see him drunken and in pain. She told Narcissa as much and she understood with a little convincing by Remus. Well then she got all upset about her son being happy and Molly had already thought of that.

Molly had spent time analyzing the young Mr. Malfoy, and saw exactly why he was so in love with her daughter. Ginny had been more or less a carefree girl, though less and less after her first year at Hogwarts. When she gave away her trust and love she gave away all of it, and no one can resist the total and complete love of another person, no matter how callused you were. Draco must have been caught off guard by this, but also mesmerized by it. Passion was something Slytherins had never understood, no wonder they hated Gryffindors; they didn't understand them. It's easy to hate something you don't understand, but it's just as easy to love it – some people forgot that.

Draco was rough and cruel where Ginny was soft and kind. Draco was stiff and prideful where Ginny was flexible and understanding. But on a different side of the same coin, Ginny wouldn't hesitate to tell you what she thought, and she was by no means a pushover. Ginny was a good match for Draco, if not an odd one. But, dear Merlin, what beautiful children they made.

Cassian would probably never be an only child, well, unless Molly's little plan didn't work. And it would. Because Molly Weasley was a genius and Harry Potter was a surprisingly good actor. Oh, Ron would have to stay in the dark; he was so transparent and yet so thick. Molly was sure it was Arthur's genes – none of _HER_ genes would produce something that oblivious. Oh, she loved him, but she knew him.

It was obvious that Harry Potter was pining over someone, but who it was Molly might never know. It wasn't her daughter that was for sure. Some other woman in the Auror business perhaps? Harry had been more than willing to set Draco and Ginny right, however. Molly could tell that Harry had begun to see Draco in a much different light than before. It would be a stretch indeed to call them friends, but grudgingly respectful allies would probably work. And Harry pitied Draco, even though the pity would never be returned by anything but near hatred. Harry was a tender boy underneath all his armor and swords. Molly knew her daughter wasn't right for a man with those kinds of problems.

Goading Draco was something that Harry was surprisingly good at, which was fortunate because Molly's first instinct was to go with goading. If Draco thought there was no competition for his love of Ginny he might never get the courage to ask her. But if he was under the false information that there was another suitor, a man he'd competed with every day for most of his life, he would be much more motivated. In fact, Harry should be over at Malfoy Manner right as she thought. It would be a little over a half an hour of deliberations, decisions over what to wear, what to say, and what to give, probably a shower, and most likely a trip to a shop or two for a gift for Cassian, and Draco would be here. Today most likely.

Molly smiled softly to herself as she hummed, kneading the dough on the counter. A soft patter of feet in the chilly, noontime air stopped her. That would be Cassian, of course, he daughter's beautiful son. He was a very nice little boy, good manners, very clean, and never rowdy. Molly had a feeling that would change very quickly. He had begun to befriend Peter and Michael, Percy and Penelope's twin boys. Not to say that Percy and Penelope were bad parents, but with children like Fred and George, no parent was ready. They were potentially more intelligent than Fred and George, but equally creative…or destructive depending on how you saw it.

Cassian's days of quiet solitude with his mother would be unceremoniously broken in half. He would begin to grow up and want more freedoms. But it would be good for him. No one could live the protected toddler his whole life. No one could live the protected housewife, either, she reminded herself. Ginny had made it sound not so bad, that he left that alone mostly, but Molly could tell. Things had happened to Ginny that made her irreparably different than she had been five years ago. Not all bad though. She was a little more serious, a little more responsible, and a load more understanding and restrained.

"Nana," Cassian said quietly, his hands in folded in front of him, innocent as an angel. Molly just wanted to rush and hug him, but he was still a little timid. Oh, that would go away in time.

"Yes, Cassian? Was there something you wanted?" she asked carefully.

"I can't find, Mother," he said, almost hopelessly.

Molly gazed out the window and saw Ginny. She was sitting under a tree, shaded from the windy chill. It was winter after all, and January no less. But Ginny needed some time to think, and even though she wasn't wrapped up warm, Molly understood that it came with the territory of being a Fire Element. Molly knew she would be fine.

"She's outside, right now. Wait a moment and we'll get you all fixed up for the snow," she said, dusting her hands on her apron.

Cassian shook his head from side to side. "I don't need to, Nana."

Molly smiled and nodded. "I know. But I'm a grandma; it's what I do. At least wear a jacket and boots, no use getting your clothes wet, Cassian."

He looked at her gravely and said, "Okay."

A few minutes later Molly saw him treading in the knee-high snow to where Ginny was sitting. She accepted him with open arms and they closed their eyes together and were silent. There was a very strange, but very powerful bond between the two of them. Molly was almost jealous she and Ginny had never had a chance for that kind of bond. The Elements had screwed her again. Only people with human souls could be Dreamweavers. Ginny's female children might be Dreamweavers because of her heritage, but never her. But she would share other bonds with her children, Elemental bonds, like the one between her and Cassian. All Molly could hope for was that Josephine and Liberty, Percy and Penelope's daughters, would inherit Molly's Dreamweaver gift. Then she would teach them and the line would go on.

Molly snorted. The line always went on. For centuries and millennia it had gone on. It still would. And now a new line would go on. There were the Weasley Blood Berserkers; there were the most noble line of Mann Dreamweavers, the original in her bloodline being Isolde Mann, Molly's grandmother; and now there were to be the Malfoy Elementals, hybrids of Fire and Wind, the founder Ginny, Molly's own daughter. The lines were all mingling again; it was a good thing. Long ago, in the first Great Wizarding War of the century with Grindlewand the same thing had happened. Ancient and noble bloodlines combined, evolving, developing into the best, and now the best of the best were evolving again.

Molly felt as though history were being made before her eyes. Someday her children's children's children would be able to read this and say that they were part of it. And that gave Molly a stupendous idea. It was time for Molly to do a bit of research. Perhaps Albus would be happy to help. That hat of his had a very long memory…

* * *

_The Dragon Himself_

The snow had stopped for the afternoon, for which Ginny was glad. She wanted to watch over her childhood house in peace. Cassian had come out to keep her company. She knew he would be painfully shy around all those people, and that he was upset to see them go nonetheless. He had been forming a quick bond with Michael and Peter, Percy and Penelope's lovely sons. They reminded her so much of Fred and George, it was easy to see who their favorite uncles were. But Cassian was, by nature, a private boy, and would need more time to adjust.

Hell, Ginny would need more time to adjust. She had seen everyone, and though they had shed tears she had not. She supposed it was something only humans could do. She was exempt. And a little bitter. But she loved them. She loved their smiles, their hugs, their tears, their words, their presence…all that she had been missing for five years was being repaid.

Charlie and Bill still bachelors, probably until the war was over. Ginny could tell Bill was in love with someone, but she hadn't found out who. Percy, still married, and with five children. Michael and Peter most obviously took after their parents' intellect, while Josephine and Liberty were very smart but rather subdued. Arthur, their youngest, newly born, had a special aura about him that Ginny couldn't pin. Her father had it…Percy had it…and Ron had it… There was a connection Ginny didn't have yet. Surprising to her George was married and had two children, Lawrence and Fred. Both adorable boys with piercing eyes and brilliant red hair. Fred was still unmarried, but mother had told her that he and Angelina had been seeing each other quite frequently in secret. Ginny had a feeling after the war there was going to be a lot of marriages…and a lot of babies.

Ginny had seen Ron and Harry and Hermione a lot over the last two days she'd been in the Burrow. Ron was in and out, and Harry and Hermione never stayed long. None of them were married, but that wasn't too surprising to Ginny. She'd seen Hermione with a dazed look on her face, like she'd been working too hard. Harry and Ron got the same look, and Ginny knew the war was affecting their friendship. Not the friendship between Harry and Ron of course. That had gone through so many trials and tribulations it could pass through a million crucibles and come out unscathed. No, it was the relationship between Hermione and the boys that bothered Ginny. The Trio weren't 'THE TRIO' anymore. It was Ron and Harry, and Hermione and Hermione. Ginny felt sorry for Hermione, but she also saw something in Hermione's eyes that made her think there was someone, somewhere, she was thinking about. It made Ginny smile inwardly.

Other things were different, too. She hadn't seen her friends yet, Blaise, Dean, and Colin were supposedly in France, studying the liberal and having a fine time of it. She'd not heard of marriages and children and happiness for a long time. She'd almost forgotten what it was like.

"Mother," Cassian said softly, pulling on the sleeve of her green camisole for her attention.

Ginny frowned and looked down on him. It wasn't like him to be impatient like that. "What is it, Cassian?" she asked. "Is there something the matter?"

Cassian looked up at her with her very own eyes and shook his head the negative. "No, Mother. He's here. The man."

Out of place among the whiteness of the snow, a man walked, dressed in black from head to foot, his gait smooth and intense. Ginny knew him. Ginny had always known him. He was inside of her, a part of her. She could feel the heat in his eyes; she didn't even need to see him to know he was there. His presence was overbearingly hot, even for a Fire Element.

The man walked closer and Ginny watched listlessly as Cassian leapt delicately from her lap and walked as fast as he could towards the dark figure.

Draco had come for her.

* * *

ºThe Prodigal Son – portrait by Rembrandt, also a ballet...apparently it has some biblical significance as well

º"A Modest Proposal" – A satire by Jonathan Swift, author of _Gulliver's Travels_, that suggests the Irish eat their own children to solve their hunger, overpopulation, and poverty.


	17. Evergreen Love

**A/N:** Pronunciation – Achilles (ah-SHEEL), Xavier (za-VYAY)

* * *

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:**

**Evergreen Love**

* * *

_Meeting the Dragon_

Ginny breathed deep the gathering gloom.º _Inhale,_ she told herself. She had to inhale or she would be lost. His eyes pinned her to where she was, and as Cassian stood at his feet, looking up with adoration he leaned down to ruffle the boy's head and broke contact with her. He said something to Cassian Ginny couldn't hear and they began to walk towards her in the snow. They didn't touch; they stayed together though. Cassian's steps hurried to keep up with his.

His…him… …Draco…

Ginny's long curls blew in front of her eyes and she swept them away hastily as Draco and Cassian approached her. It was like looking back through time. The boy and the man walking side by side, mirrors in time… Ginny felt transparent, insecure in Draco's steel-tinted gaze. He was keeping her there, unable to move, tortured quietly under his unyielding, intense eyes.

When they stood together before her Ginny forgot to breathe. They were so perfect together, Cassian and Draco. They were father and son. They were of the same blood. If they weren't together what did any of it matter? Why had she survived so long, driven herself so hard, if not for Cassian to at least have known his father?

"Ginny…" It came out as a soft whisper, nearly part of the wind. She felt the world stop for a time, like ice had frozen it and it was only her and Cassian and Draco, looking at each other, together at last.

Ginny swallowed and rose from the bench under the tree. She looked down at an anxious Cassian and smiled a small grin. "Cassian, why don't you go inside now? We'll practice later."

She hated it because he looked about ready to cry. But there were things that needed to be said that little boys couldn't hear. He turned up to Draco, as if knowing instinctually that he was his father, and that if he wanted he might be able to override her. But Draco knew as she did that this was not the time and place for little boys.

"May I…give him something first?" Draco asked softly, pulling a rectangular box from his heavy black coat and presenting it to Ginny. "A present. Just for helping me…back in Greece ."

Oh, yes, Ginny had heard of this. She knew how she was rescued, Harry and Ron had made it a point to tell her how amazing her son was and skip over the details that depicted Draco saving all their lives. But she thought they were only being kind in not trying to mention him to her. It was kind of them.

She nodded her head. "Take it inside, Cassian."

Draco sunk to a knee in the snow and presented the green-wrapped present to Cassian, who took it a little greedily. A gift from the father is always taken like that, she recalled. Cassian jogged towards the Burrow but turned back halfway too look again. Then he was gone.

Ginny looked in Draco's eyes for a long time, and Draco looked into Ginny's eyes for a long time. It seemed there were too many words, not too few. There was no beginning because there had never really been an end. Hope had kept their strings connected, and now it had brought them together.

"Can we walk a little ways?" he asked.

Ginny nodded.

* * *

_And Now Presenting_

"Nana! Nana!"

Molly jumped at the sound of Cassian's voice so high. She turned to him and saw he had a nice-looking green box. "Oh, what's this?"

"The _man_ is here, Nana! The man is here!" Cassian shouted triumphantly.

"What man?" Molly asked, looking out the window. Oh, it was that man. She sighed.

Well, finally. Molly smiled down at the little boy. "Let's see what he's brought you, shall we?"

* * *

_Ecliptic Daydream, Part I_

There was a river frozen over where she had led him to a stop. Draco imagined that on hot summer days she and her family would play in the water, laughing and screaming, happiness surrounding them like the towels they dried themselves in. He watched her, he had watched her, very carefully as they walked. She offered no small talk; instead she was silent, introspective. And she absolutely refused to look him in the eyes.

Her hair had grown out now, and it had become more loosely wavy than curly. It was still thick and vital, and framed her perfectly pale face in soft undulations. Her hips were wider than he remembered, and she wasn't as deathly skinny either. Draco decided he liked this. Her thin green camisole did little to protect against he cold, but he doubted she needed it. She was still short, but not so childlike. She was adult, but still youthful. She was mature, but still energetic. Her spark wasn't gone. Welsh hadn't taken that from her.

It made Draco glad. He watched her as she stopped and looked from her hand to his feet, working her way to his face. When her eyes met his he wanted to break apart and let her swim in him. Her eyes…_GODS!_ Her eyes! Magnetic, coppery, metallic and shimmering. How long had it been since she looked at him like that? How long had it been since he'd seen the want shining in her eyes?

Five years… Five years of fire and wind. Five years of pain. Five years of need. Five years of waking up lonely. Five years of never-agains. Five years of wishing. Five years…

She opened her mouth then closed it again. She sobered and gazed thoughtfully at him. "Draco…"

She said his name so gracefully. _Draco… _Not hard or unyielding, not serpentine or cruel. _Draco… _Like a song or a well-loved book._ Draco… _His lover's sigh in the early morning. _Draco… _No one said his name like she did.

Her eyes became bright, as though she was ready to cry. "…I didn't trust you, Draco… I'm sorry!"

She jerked, like she wanted to run to him but was afraid of rejection herself. She thought he hadn't forgiven her.

When Draco wrapped his arms around her slender form she buried herself in him, her soft hands finding their way inside his black trench coat and around his waist. She shuddered against him, the last winter leaf hanging to the tree. He would turn their love to pine, ere it would be ever green.º

In a way, this is how Draco wanted it. He wanted her to need him like he needed her. It wasn't the part of him that could love that wanted this; it was the part that could hate. He hated that she could have married Potter. That part of him was greedy, selfish, possessive, cruel, bitter, and, above all, jealous. He wanted her all for himself, so know one else could take the beauty she had within. He wanted her to feel as though she couldn't live without him.

The other half, the half that loved, just wanted to cherish her, to make sure she was never hurt, so they could be like they were once before. This half loved her fiercely, and was the part that he wanted her to see, not that jealous, selfish, possessive half. He couldn't help it though; it was how he felt. That half was his father, and it would always be there. The half that could love, Ginny's half, would, in time, become stronger, and his father's half would become a distant memory.

Ginny's body, shuddering against him, so close and volatile, reminded him of all those years ago. He hadn't looked at another woman; they disgusted him. He never took another lover, for anyone that wasn't Ginny wasn't worthy of him. He had dreamt only of her, and resigned himself to a period of chastity in her absence. He was a man; he could wait. But with her pressed against him so, he reminded himself that he was still only a man.

Draco leaned down and inhaled the soft scent of her hair. She was really there, with him, so fragile in his arms. It reminded him how tiny she really was compared to him. He had grown taller in her absence; she had only grown more beautiful. She was so worthy to be the mother of his children. Her beauty, her kindness, her thoughtfulness, her gravity, her quickness, her heart… He needed her.

Draco watched as she leaned back a little and slid one of her hands down his arm, entwining their fingers. She looked at them with interest. Over the years Draco's hands had become calloused and tan. Her skin was still porcelain, a porcelain they had both matched in their youth. Finally, her eyes met his and they stayed like that, the sun poking out from the clouds to shine for a moment.

"Ginny…" he said, sincerely, honestly. "I have to tell you things."

"I know," she whispered.

Swallowing hard, Draco released her and they stood, not a foot from each other, solemnly and quietly. "I never meant to hurt you…" Her eyes shone brightly and he had to stop for a moment. "I should have told you, but I…I didn't want you to hate me, or think I was…despicable. I've been working for the cause since my last year at Hogwarts. I've fought it many battles, and I've won many awards. I hope I am worthy now, worthy for you to…to love…if you want…"

Ginny's jaw trembled slightly, her hair shadowing her eyes as she looked down. "I knew, Draco. The whole time I knew something was wrong. I…I never stopped believing you loved me, not really."

She coughed and put her face in her hands. The wind picked up suddenly and Draco felt something change. The wind hit his face in a heated gust, nearly throwing him off balance. Ginny's hair whipped before him like long tendrils of fire being blown in the wind.

When she looked up at him he saw there were tears in her eyes, rolling down her cheeks in races. Draco took care to bush every tear out of her eyes with a white hanker-chief that he later stuffed in his pocket. She looked up at him with mournful eyes.

"I'm cold, Draco," she murmured.

Draco placed a large hand on the soft influx of her hip, his other hand winding around the hair at the nape of her neck. When their lips met Draco felt the most wonderful gift of all had been returned to him. Her lips tasted like tears and cold, and they trembled oh, so delicately against his as he drew her near, into the protection of his long coat. Ginny's hands slid into his jacket and up his shoulder blades, bringing him as close to her, needing his warmth.

His knees wanted to give when she purred softly, lustily into his ear, "Please…"

All semblance of control left him and he eagerly slipped his tongue into her mouth. She shuddered and stood on her toes. A feeling of peace passed over Draco. It was content, something unfamiliar as fire underwater to him. It was the way he had felt so long ago, reclining in bed with Ginny, her girlish smell lingering on his sheets when she left.

When they broke apart Ginny's cheeks were pink and her lips swollen subtly. She looked like an angel. It was almost impossible to believe that an angel of her caliber would want anything to do with him. Compared to her he was a monster bred in hell, bitter and ill tempered. But he needed her, needed her desperately, like the desert needs the rain.º

"Draco?"

* * *

_Ecliptic Daydream, Part II_

Draco jerked out of his daydream. They had stopped walking and Ginny was looking at him with curious eyes. Draco could have slapped himself. He'd been having that dream for five years now. Why couldn't it leave him be? It's not like it was ever going to happen. He was here to…to make sure she wasn't going to marry Potter. And to make sure she didn't hate him too much.

It had just seemed so real, and even now he could feel the beginnings coming again, her hair blew in the chill wind, her eyes sharp and chiseled. But she didn't shiver, not even in the snow. Not even when Draco himself needed a long coat to protect him from the cold. She had changed. He saw it. He observed it in her steps, her eyes, her face, her hands, and her lips. He could even feel it. She was different than when she left.

Not a bad different. There had always been something that had drawn him to her, something he suspected had roots in their shared Elemental powers. But now…there was something deeper in her, something older, and her body, while the same on the outside, was different inside. The homeostasis of the Elemental world had been restored days ago, and Draco had adjusted himself accordingly. He could feel things like he had before, maybe better now that he was near Ginny. She had changed things. And Draco didn't know why, only that she made him feel stronger.

"Draco?" she inquired again, taking a step towards a deadened oak. She turned from him, her hair zipping over her shoulder blades like water, and placed a hand on the oak. "Can I ask you something?" she questioned, turning to look at him for a moment. Her eyes held uncertainty and, he would have to hate himself it this were true, fear. Did his Ginny fear him?

Draco swallowed hard and nodded.

She bit her lip, as if she didn't know how to continue. Then, looking at him directly, apprehensively, "I think it would be a good idea if you and Cassian saw each other. I know, just because being an auror must be a lot of work, you might not have a lot of time, and the Malfoys have a reputation to protect. And I know that you don't have to, but he seems to look up to you…but he doesn't _know_…know that…that you're his father. I thought I'd let you tell me if you wanted him to know. I told him your name…well, I told him a little about you, but he doesn't know it's _you_."

She stopped, as if sensing she was babbling, which she was. Draco didn't mind, if it hadn't have been for what she was saying. "Are you giving me permission to visit my son?" he half sneered. He hadn't meant to do it. But he had. Now, now that the final, crucial moment had come, he couldn't do it. He couldn't talk to her like he had once so long ago, like he could in the dreams. Dreams and reality were different. He was different; he was a cold, hard bastard; he was too scarred to spurt poetry to her.

"Well," she backed away, seeming a little affronted. "I…" she looked down, and put her hand on the oak again, swallowing. Gazing up at him with worried eyes, "Yes, I suppose. You don't _have_ to, it's only, it would be good for him to have a father. Every boy needs a father."

Draco stopped cold. _Every boy needs a father._ Potter had said that. Potter had already been there. He'd already asked her. She was going to give Cassian to Potter and they were going to be one, big happy family together. Damn him. _DAMN HIM!_ That rat bastard was always ruining everything. Give him the spotlight. Give him the money. Give him the women and the fame and the adoration, but give Ginny to Draco. It's all he had wanted for five years. He didn't want the blood. He didn't want the killing. He didn't want the alcohol. He _WANTED_ Ginny.

Exhaling, Draco took a step closer, clenching his fists at his sides. "Oh, I see how it is. You've talked with Potter haven't you? You've…" Draco spat, not able to finish the sacrilegious sentence. "Well?" he asked, taking another step forward, slightly aggressive as he raised an eyebrow.

Ginny swallowed hard, looking at him with wide eyes. "Yes, I've spoken with Harry. Though I don't know what he has to do with any of this."

Draco sneered again. What he had to do with any of this?! What he had to do with any of this!? He grabbed onto her shoulders and shook her, a little harder than he had meant to. "Why don't you just go out and say it?! Why don't you just admit it?! You hate me! You loathe me, just like you said you would. You took everything that day, and now you're taking this!"

He sobered for a moment, looking her in the eye. Her eyes were wide, uncomprehending. She opened her lips but not a sound came out. Draco seethed. She didn't even bother defending herself. "Why can't you let me go? Why can't you let me hate you like you hate me?"

His hands, clasping her shoulders, tensed suddenly and drew her toward him in a passionate kiss. To a passerby it would seem more cruelty than love. Draco sank his fingers into her skin, for it reminded him that she was solid and really, for the first time in five years, there. Her hands were on his, as though simultaneously trying to pull them off and pull them closer. He pressed her close into him and could barely believe he felt her.

Coming to his senses, Draco pushed her away, perhaps violently, for she stumbled back and grasped firmly to the old oak, her eyes looking ready to shed tears and her body trembling. She was full of fear, Draco could smell it if he tried. _Look what you are, _he said to himself. _Look what you do to her. No wonder she's marrying Potter. Look at yourself. You're Lucius… _

"No!" he whispered harshly to himself. Then, looking at her, watching her body crumple to the ground, he felt his features grow slightly softer. He almost helped her up, but he couldn't. "I'm sorry…_I_…I'm sorry."

She looked at him with large, terrified eyes. They said to him, who are you? What are you? Why? He couldn't look at them anymore. He couldn't look at her anymore. He couldn't even be near her anymore. It hurt. It hurt maybe more than being away from her, because at least then he had hope that she would accept him. She'd already rejected him. So Cassian would have a father.

"Have a good life," he whispered. Draco took a step towards her, but stopped, frowned. He didn't need to hurt her anymore.

Had he looked behind he would have seen Ginny, sinking slowly, quietly to the snow. A hand went to her lips and she brushed her shoulders tenderly. He would have seen her wonderment, her disillusioned hope, and her frailty under his hate. But Draco didn't turn around and he didn't see any of that.

Draco Disapparated.

* * *

_What Threatens_

It was quite dark when Percy stepped into his house late that night. He could see that there were several toys that had been neglected, which he was happy to dodge, and there was a meal, still hot, on the table in the kitchen. He had expected this after telling Penelope that he would be very late that night. Percy tried, he really did, to be a good father and a good minister, but he could easily see how Barty Crouch had been led astray. There was just so much to do. He had also expected the workload, and that Penelope and his family would have to learn how to deal with his absences.

Yes, he had thoroughly expected all this, but he didn't expect a little party in his dining room table at midnight that Thursday evening. He walked into his dim kitchen and saw Penelope, George, Victoria , Marissa, and Marcus at the table in the dining room. As he walked in they stopped talking and Penelope rose tiredly, her hair disheveled and still wearing her night robes.

"Oh, Percy," she breathed, moving towards him swiftly and wrapping her arms around his waist. He patted her head fondly, trying to gage the faces of his guests. Penelope let go, tears shining in her eyes. "We have to talk, Percy."

Percy went dead white. Terror flooded his senses and he turned to his wife mutely. "Is there…are the children alright?"

Penelope let out a strangled sob and said, tearily, "Thank the gods, yes!" She swallowed and led him to the table, sitting beside him and looking him in the eye. "It's just, we've just received a letter from Dumbledore, all of us. Percy…"

As Penelope drained into tears, Percy looked towards Victoria and George, who where showing uncharacteristic affection to each other by entwining their hands on the table, eyes downcast. He looked at Marissa, who had rare tears brimming in her eyes, and finally at Marcus, who looked grim and solemn.

It was Marcus who spoke first, the only one who seemed in the right frame of mind. Cool, controlled Marcus, Percy now depended on his harshest critic and long-time enemy for the most honest advice and criticism. Mind, he didn't like Marcus, he trusted Marcus, which was the only thing he could do considering he probably owed the man a life debt for getting him out of Mordred's Fortress all those years ago, revealing his loyalties at the same time.

Marcus held up a parchment with Dumbledore's crest on it, tossing it across the table in lee of explanation. "Your children and your brother's children are in a lot of trouble. They're fine, but death warrants have been placed on their and your heads. In fact, a lot of children are in the same spot. They'll have to be taken from you and your wife." And it seemed that Marcus's features softened for a moment as he frowned, "I'm real sorry, Percy."

Percy closed his eyes for a long moment, trying to regain his focus.

"The Witches Coven headquarters in Selene have volunteered to take in all the children, female and male. All Witches Coven members are required to report to Selene posthaste to protect them, unless they have an active role in the resistance that requires more pressing matters. They're moving Selene from under the Vatican to Grise Fiordº, the Inuit stronghold on Ellesmere Island."

This was one of the more powerful strongholds in the world for a few reasons. Firstly, it was heavily protected by the Aurora Borealis, an intensely magical shield the northernmost and southernmost areas of the world seemed to create. Secondly, Grise Fiord was settled by a powerful Norwegian wizard around nineteen hundred by the name of Otto Sverdrup. He saw the rising of the dark lord Grindelwald and set up several such strongholds along the Aurora Borealis, Grise Fiord being the most powerful. Thirdly, the site was inhabited by an ancient and mighty tribe of Inuit. They had guarded the area for hundreds of years, recognizing its powers and protecting it with their distinct and evolved form of Ice Magic. They claimed that an unthawing block of ice influenced by the Aurora charged the area with an unlimited amount of white magic, protecting from the darker magic. They called it _Aujuittuq_ – 'the place that never thaws.'

Moving the Flying City of Selene to Grise Fiord meant these children were in serious danger from these threats, and that the Coven had been threatened too. Percy's own mother would no doubt be called away to her duty in Selene, and had suspicions that several other mothers would find themselves in similar situations.

"Since Arthur is so young, as are Josephine and Liberty , Penelope will be going as well," Marcus continued. He frowned again, looking at Percy with a hard stare. "I want you to know, Percy, that your kids are going to be well protected. I'm on the special unit of defense aurors, along with Longbottom, Genovese, and Achilles Delacour, who were enlisted to protect from any sort of attack, and to help the Coven if things go badly. We won't let you down."

Percy breathed deep and turned to Penelope. "We leave tonight," she whispered. "We're meeting the Finnegans, the Brownings, and the Delacours here tonight. We're going as a group to Grise Fiord."

It was all he could do to not lose his temper. He had not become a Berserker for two years now, no major battle had occurred in which he was required. But now his children, his brother's children, and many other innocents were being hunted down. It was just like twenty years ago. Voldemort was doing it again. He was going after the innocent, and Percy couldn't stand for it.

Clenching his fists, face in a grimace, he looked towards his brother, who in turn looked at him. "George," he said stiffly. George nodded. "You and Fred help escort this area's families to the Flying City. Say your goodbyes to your children; you may not see them for a while. The Order of the Phoenix will be waiting for you at Grimmald Place when you get back."

George nodded and he and his wife departed to the hearth to Floo home, where Percy suspected Fred was staying with the children. Percy pulled Penelope to her feet and walked upstairs with her. She clutched at his hand, and he could hear her sniffing up the halls. Stopping outside of Michael and Peter's shared room, Percy grabbed Penelope about the shoulders and swiftly brought his lips on hers, letting his tensions flow out into the kiss. She stood on her tiptoes swinging her arms around his neck and pulled him down. She was crying; he could feel her hot tears on his cheeks.

She pulled back stiffly, whispering a tight message in his ear. "Come back. Just…just come back to me."

Percy nodded and wrapped his arms around her, swaying slightly as he inhaled into her curly hair. "Odysseus was a fool, Penelope. I'm coming home to Ithaca; don't worry."º

She sobbed for a moment, sniffing and wiping her eyes when she moved to open the door. Percy heard her, leaning back against the wall and massaging his temples. His family. This was _HIS_ family. He loved them. He and Penelope loved, raised, and cherished this family. They were his sole reason for living. They were the reason he was here today, Minister of Magic. He was making a difference because he wanted them safe. And this war was threatening that safety. He would kill Voldemort. He would kill _ANYONE _who got in his way.

Penelope exited the room, a very sleepy Peter and Michael in tail. They yawned and stretched as Penelope brought Josephine and Liberty from their rooms, and finally Arthur, who was dead asleep. Percy picked up Liberty, whose golden-red curls brushed his jaw as she burrowed into his shoulder. They trooped downstairs and found George and Victoria waiting downstairs with their children already. Marcus and Marissa were by the door, talking quietly.

Liberty whined and sought comfort in Marissa as Percy handed her down. "Take care of them, Flint," Percy said with difficultly, offering his hand.

Flint nodded, his face, for once, without sneer, and he took Percy's hand. They shook stiffly, both frowning solemnly, and Percy opened the door, watching everyone walk out. They would catch the emergency Portkey set up a half-mile from their house and meet up with the Finnegans, Brownings, and Delacours, who had recently moved to England. Marissa held Liberty, and Flint had picked up Josephine. Josephine called Flint her favorite uncle. Peter and Michael walked quietly, for once, behind their mother, who held Arthur in her arms. Victoria and George left the house carrying a child each, and Percy closed the door behind them, replacing the safety charms and not looking back.

The fell in a long line, and were soon accompanied by an equally long line of blond-headed, French speaking witches and wizards. The Finnegans and the Brownings were already at the hill, waiting quietly for the rest of the group. When Percy reached the top he reset the Portkey to Selene and put it on the ground, transfiguring it into a lamppost so everyone could grab hold.

Then, turning to the contingent, he observed their scared, somber faces. "Seamus," he said. The man nodded, putting a hand on the shoulder of a young, brunette boy with wide eyes. It appeared to be his younger son, for the older was taller and more defiant-looking. "You're invited to the Order meeting tonight."

"Thank you, Minister Weasley," Seamus said directly with an ascent of his head.

He looked around and saw Dante Browning, Assistant Director of BAF, holding a small boy in his arms. Nodding at Dante with respect, he turned to the French, Wind Elemental, Gustave Delacour. "Mr. Delacour," he said, "I'd be honored if you would join us at the meeting as well. I believe it's about time that we make this whole war international, don't you?"

Gustave was tall and lanky with blonde hair and sharp blue eyes. He reminded Percy of Lucius Malfoy in appearance and dress, but not in the face, nor in the eyes. He had the look of something old in him, something worth being honored. He had the look of a Ravenclaw. "Non, Monsignor Weaslay," he said in a soft voice, heavily accented. "It would by my honor." He dipped his head as he said it, then put his hand on a boy that could only be his son. Well, his older son, for there were two boys and four girls, including a woman Percy knew as Fleur Delacour. "Thees iz my son, Achilles. He iz a good man, a strong Elemental. He will protect with hees life."

Percy shook Achilles' hand, noted that the man had the same look his father did, despite being years younger. He would be a good soldier, Percy could already tell. Goodbyes were said, and Percy took Penelope and all his children in his arms one more time before everyone moved about the lamppost and were sucked in the vortex created by the Portkey. When Percy looked around only five men and one woman were left – Percy, Dante, Seamus, Gustave, Fleur Delacour, and Gustave's younger son, too old to go with the women and children, too young to fight with the men.

Percy took a deep breath and realigned the Portkey again to Grimmald Place before transfiguring it into something smaller, a shoe. "What's your name, son?" Percy asked the blond boy standing near Fleur and Gustave.

"Xavier, Monsignor," he said curtly. Percy studied him.

The boy was too young, wanting to be old enough to fight. It must be hard, Percy thought. If only he was older… Percy sighed. "Can you Apparate, Xavier?"

"Oui, Monsignor," he replied, pulling out his wand.

Percy nodded and said, "Apparate to Hogwarts, right outside the gates. Tell the gate-guard that Percy sent you – the password is 'Unicorn.' Can you remember this, Xavier?"

"Oui, Monsignor," he replied, clenching his teeth in anger. Percy knew why.

"Good," Percy said. "Explain to Headmistress McGonagall your situation and all you've seen and heard tonight. She will take care of you, and you will have to take care of Hogwarts. Now go."

Xavier, Fleur, and Gustave shared a moment in French, then Xavier Disapparated. As soon as the boy was gone, the remaining five grabbed hold of the shoe and were pulled into Grimmald Place.

* * *

_Aujuittuq – Inuit for 'The Place That Never Thaws'_

Ginny let the Arctic wind slip around her hair, lifting her heavy skirt into swirls at her feet. She sighed and closed her eyes, crossing her arms. She couldn't feel it. She couldn't feel anything…not even the cold. Aujuittuq was a barren place, little more than a wasteland. She had been told that there were occasionally buffalo-like creatures that roamed the ice, but she'd not seen any life but Coven life.

The Flying City of the Sisterhood, Selene, was called the Flying City for one reason and one reason only; it flew. It didn't fly like most people suspected though. It didn't have a take-off procedure, and it didn't have a countdown. The Flying City was a city of mist. Much like Avalon it disappeared into the mist, an ancient piece of magic that was taught to the Sisterhood by their predecessors. The Coven Witches were the daughters of the Avalon Witches, sent off of the isle by their foremothers before Avalon's final sinking into the mist. The daughters of the Avalon Witches formed the Coven Witches and also created the Flying City based off of the same magic their mothers used. The Sisterhood, like the Motherhood, had existed for hundreds of years, and until they were fully defeated the Flying City would exist as well.

Ginny looked from the Arctic desert to Selene and then back again at the wasteland. There were more than four hundred inhabitants in the castle and more pouring in each day. All of Percy's children, all of George's children, all of Seamus's children, all of Browning's children, all of Susan Bones' children, all of the Delacour's children – so many children. And wives. Children and wives. The gentlefolk. The soft woman-folk.

The thought of her as soft made Ginny snort. Did they not know she was an icy dagger forged by the fires of hell? Did they not know that with her powers she could end this war with the flick of her wrist? Did they not know that she was their ultimate weapon?

She sighed. No. No, they didn't. Because she hadn't told them. They didn't really know what she could do. Yes, some suspected. Ginny was sure that her mother must suspect. She thought that at least Dumbledore would suspect. She sighed again, pulling her arms around her stomach. And even if they did know, would they ask her? She didn't think they would. They were under the impression this was a man's war. It was fought for the rights of man. It was ideal to kill the other man, the evil man. It was a war for men. And where did the women fit in? Defense. They were back up.

She turned back to Selene, a bit perturbed that the sun hadn't shone since ten in the morning. Inside the castle it was warm and hospitable. There was still a bit of reconstruction going on inside the castle – magical reconstruction that is. They were making room for the guests that were pouring in for all over the world. The Coven was taking in all children, and if they were young enough their mothers too. It was damn decent of them, especially since this had been extended to boys as well.

"Hey! Ginny! Watch –"

* * *

_The Doubt Disease_

Hermione groaned and sat beside her friend. It had been a very long day. No, correction, it had been a very long week. With all the traffic coming to Selene…and it wasn't like it was her fault specifically… Well, she had seen it as an opportunity to train some of the younger girls. What could go wrong with a little charms work? And she had chosen all of the oldest girls to do it…

Gabrielle, a girl of about sixteen or seventeen, hadn't been very good at charming, and Hermione thought she was giving the girl extra practice. After all, the girl was the sister of Fleur Delacour, one of the best charmers Hermione knew. Things like that obviously didn't run in the family. Well, at least Gabrielle was remorseful. Gabrielle hadn't left Ginny's side since she ran the bedside table into her skull. Oh, there had been crying, of course, Gabrielle's crying mostly. But Ginny would survive; she'd just have a headache for the next few days probably.

"Really, Ms. Delacour," Hermione sighed, taking the girl's hand and looking her in the eye. "It may have been your fault, but it isn't the end of the world."

Gabrielle sniffed and flung herself over Ginny's prone body, whispering things in French and English that Hermione couldn't decipher. Hermione knew that any other girl would have left the room by now, very remorseful, but understanding that nothing could be done now. Hermione knew the real problem here wasn't that Gabrielle was a very sensitive girl, though she was, or her remorse was so overpowering, though it was; the real problem was Ginny was an Element and Gabrielle was, like Fleur, a Wind Elemental. It was like a magnetic attraction, something the girl wouldn't be able to consciously help. It was like she had worshipped Ginny's very existence and now was being told that her goddess was dead. There was no consoling her. Even Sylvaine and Marielle, Gabrielle's younger sisters, were utterly stricken by Ginny's condition.

Hermione understood that Elementals, especially partial Elementals with little training of the powers, were completely engrossed with stronger, purer Elementals. In the case of an Element – no, two Elements – in one person's body, it must be like a heroine addiction. They were like druggies; they couldn't get enough. It made Hermione wonder if that was why Malfoy had liked Ginny so much.

"All right," Hermione said a little sharply as she pulled Gabrielle up. "If you are quiet and don't lose control, I'll let you sit in the corner while I finish healing Ginny. Okay?"

Gabrielle looked from Ginny to Hermione a few times and then scurried over to the corner and sat in the chair, watching fascinated as Ginny brushed back Ginny's hair and proceeded to examine the back of her head. She had a large lump there, and while the bleeding had stopped by itself she would have a nasty sort of bruise for maybe a week. Hermione did a charm to stop the swelling and looked over the cut. It was small and at the nape of her neck. She healed it easily and looked at the bruise. Already blue. Hermione snorted. Ginny would be fine. She ran her fingers soothingly through Ginny's hair and marveled at it. If she had hair like that…

Hermione frowned. There was some sort of birthmark right at her hairline, barely a centimeter across. No…it was a rune of some sort, the same color as a freckle and…well…odd-shaped. Hermione was a fairly good student of Runes, and she prided herself in knowing most of the Runes from the Dark Age to today, even some from pre-written-history, ones that the first wizards used. This was like nothing she had ever seen. She smoothed the hair away from the top half and sketched the rune on a piece of paper, tucking it discretely into her blouse pocket.

She turned as the door opened and smiled at Cassian as he walked in. He had a solemn expression on his face, one that Hermione found discomforting on such a small child. He seemed to have wisdom beyond his years, even beyond Dumbledore's years. It was Ginny's eyes that did it, a metal, magnetic color. She shivered and ushered the boy in. Hermione watched as Cassian said nothing, but walked over to his mother and put a hand on her hand.

"Your mother will be fine, Cassian," she said gently. "She's just had a bump on the head. You may stay here if you want, or you can go back to your nana."

Cassian seemed to consider this gravely. "I'll stay here till Mother wakes up."

"May I stay?!"

It was the first clear sentence that Gabrielle had uttered since the incident, and Cassian and Hermione both turned to look at her. Gabrielle impulsively rushed the boy and knelt at his feet. "Please," she asked, pleading into his eyes. "Please…I love 'er."

Hermione felt as though she was watching some sort of odd power display. Something instinctive inside of Cassian must have clicked, some of his Elemental power, for he looked very regal and very royal at that moment. He put a hand on Gabrielle's head and looked at her for a long while. It was as if he were judging her, or weighing her importance and loyalty to him. Hermione watched with interest as Cassian nodded and said softly, "Yes. I love her, too."

Having determined that Ginny was in no immediate danger from neither boy nor girl, she left the room and headed for Selene's extensive libraries. She wasn't quite sure where she would go if Selene's library didn't have what she was looking for. The only better one was in Hogwarts, and perhaps the Ministry.

Five hours, twelve texts later, and still not even a clue, Hermione leaned back in the comfortless chair and massaged her temples. She had tried everything. It didn't look right in any direction that she turned it. She'd looked for any hint that might point to and answer. She sighed and Banished the books to their places, leaving the library and seeking out Victoria. She was the theorist here – she probably had books and knowledge no library had.

Victoria was handling her younger son, affectionately named Fred, with great care. His bottle was half full and tipped at an angle into his mouth as he sucked greedily. Victoria herself looked tired and slightly frazzled. No wonder. Coven Witch Turley, her mother, was in the room and playing with Lawrence, the older son. Victoria greeted Hermione with a weary smile and a small hug. After Hermione had paid proper respects to Coven Witch Turley, Victoria and Hermione were left alone in the room.

"I found this, like a sort of birthmark, on Ginny's neck," Hermione explained, both she and Victoria leaning over the paper carefully.

Victoria had swept her short hair into a clip and put on her glasses. After humming and hawing over the paper for a moment, Victoria rose and pulled a large, leather-bound tome off of her high shelf and began skimming the pages. "Now, keep in mind, Hermione, I'm not completely sure, but this, to me, looks suspiciously like Element to me."

"What?"

"Element," Victoria supplied, still gazing over the thick pages of the book whose title Hermione couldn't read. "Being the most learned on the subject of Elements and Elementals in the world," she smiled to herself, "I, foremost source on Elementals, published an essay about nine years ago as my thesis paper. It was very controversial and didn't even skim the surface of what I now suspect of being the truth." She smiled again and sat down next to Hermione, the book now open to the desired page. "You remember when I explained to you the needs and goals of the Elements, right?"

"Yes," Hermione replied.

"Well, as you know, there are very few spirits of each Element wandering their dimension and ours. That is why they sire Elemental children – to further their own power with subjects of a sort. Every Elemental born is an extension of its Element's powers. Ginny was the first Elemental born of a recent Wind and Fire pact. Pacts between Elements are very rarely signed, and never between the polars – the polar opposites like Wind and Earth, or Fire and Water. Having a hybrid of Ginny's potential power increased the respective powers of Wind and Fire, giving them an advantage in the race. It's all very theoretical, and I don't think the Elements converse and think exactly like that, but it's the gist. Following?" she asked, looking at Hermione over her glasses.

Hermione nodded. "So why doesn't every Element do that? I mean, if their goal is to get more power, why don't they team up more?"

"Because they're picky. They're untrusting. It's like being told you had to share the same room as a Death Eater. Both you and him would have reservations against it, because you might betray him in sleep or he might betray you in sleep. Strange bedfellowsº as I've always said.

"But something was different about Ginny. I suspect that Ginny is a very well planned out creation by the Elements Wind and Fire, something they've been organizing for a long time now. The reports or Wind/Fire Meetings in the last couple of centuries have been five times that of any other Element. I think they've been planning; they've been in a century long pact. It's all seconds to them, but for us, it's years."

"You make them sound like…like humans," Hermione said, slightly confused. Elements weren't people. They weren't anything like people. They might have agendas, like Victoria explained, but even animals had agendas. They weren't people, though.

Victoria smiled. "I think they were people, Hermione," Victoria whispered. She pulled Hermione closer to speak quietly in her ear. "At one point, I think they were all people. But they aren't now, and I don't think they can go back. But something remains, something in their instincts that tells them to survive. If they were just Elements crashing around in the universe how can you explain all the coincidences? This is all a theory, and I couldn't tell you how they became Elements or why, but I can tell you that this is the way they work. They're vicious; they have schemes; they have…agendas."

Hermione stood and frowned. "No. They're inanimate. They can't think like that."

A sneer spread over Victoria's face. "Tell that to Molly Weasley, Hermione," she said slowly. Hermione started in surprise at the change in her friend. "They took Ginny from her, they took her. They, Wind and Fire and Coven Witch Prewett, had a pact over twenty years ago – Molly, Fred, George, and Ginny would live if Ginny became an experiment of the Elements. Coven Witch Prewett was caught in a Meeting of Fire and Wind, Hermione. She is the single survivor in history to do so. They went back on their promise five years ago, when Ginny was kidnapped, and made her a full Element, one of Fire and Wind, and refused to give her back.

"Coven Witch Prewett came to me, she begged me to find a way to get her daughter back, and I have been trying for years now, Hermione, YEARS! I think I'm at a breakthrough, but I need your support. You have to believe me, because I'm only going to tell you things that are going to be harder to understand from now on."

Victoria gave Hermione a desperate, pleading look. Hermione recognized that a lot of this would rely on her, that Victoria's position as a mother and as a high level Coven member would restrict her from a lot of activities, such as actually leaving Selene. Hermione had a good feeling that Victoria's ideas were right, she normally was. But it just didn't seem right to Hermione…Elements…humans…Ginny…

It clicked. " Victoria …" Hermione said softly. "The Elements…they're making Ginny. They're making Elements, that's why Ginny is the way she is. They're making the ultimate weapon, the Wind/Fire Element – not Elemental."

Victoria snorted, eyes tearing at the sides. She gave Hermione a joyful look. "So many people didn't believe me, Hermione. They called me insane, a radical. They don't know…we're in danger here, Hermione." Tears fell down Victoria's face, something Hermione had only seen once before at Victoria 's wedding. She flung her arms around Hermione and sobbed. "They don't believe, they just berate. Nothing matters to her…she just likes to see me in pain. Hermione, I hate her. I hate her."

She was talking about her mother, Coven Witch Miriam Turley. Her mother was one of the harshest women Hermione had ever met, and one of the most spiteful, too. Hermione didn't know why and she didn't care, but she didn't want this for Victoria. Victoria must be as close to genius as any person could get, but Coven Witch Turley had instilled an automatic, failsafe button called doubt in her daughter. It prevented Victoria from functioning like a real genius, and it made her angry and spiteful in return, especially to her mother. George was slowly breaking down the years of training and doubt, but it was a slow process. Hermione would help. And she would help Victoria prove her theory right.

"Tell me what I need to do."

* * *

_A Good Question, Part I_

_The first thing you need to do is get a blood sample from Ginny, Cassian, all the Delacours in Selene, and all other Elementals you can find. It doesn't matter what kind, just get them. Even McGonagall, her blood is already tempered to Ginny's, and that might be helpful. Get Auror Malfoy's too… _

She had sent notices to all the people she intended to take blood from. Within the Coven there were twenty-eight women, and then all the Delacour children, and all the other Elemental children staying in Selene totaled to seventeen more. Within the Ministry, because of Percy's permission and then command to all Elementals working, she had collected another forty-two.

The polls stood as thus: Fire – twenty-four, Wind – nineteen, Water - ten, Earth – nine, Metal – eight, Cosmos – seven, Lightning – six, and Wood – four. Fifty-eight of the Elementals tested were half-blood or lower, and twenty-nine were fully Elementals.

As she looked over her results Hermione couldn't help but notice there was definitely a trend – Fire and Wind had the most subjects and the most power, followed up closely by Water and Earth. It was an odd pattern, but Hermione could see by the amounts that Victoria had been right. They were the most powerful and they were just getting more powerful.

After you collect the samples give them to Snape. He has done analysis like this before, and he knows what do to. He will need assistance, I had to help him last time and it wasn't at all pleasant. It would be great if you could, Hermione. I know you don't get along, but this is war. There are heavier things at stake than petty feuds.

If Hermione had managed to take Malfoy's blood without him killing her or insulting her too much, she could certainly offer help to Snape. And this time she wouldn't let him take advantage of her fear. She would be a grown up this time. This time would be different.

Well…

She'd been saying this to herself for five minutes, sitting outside of Snape's office, the test blood packed carefully into a picnic-like basket. She'd left Hogwarts nearly five years ago and never looked back. Since then she'd lost friends, lost contact, but gained power, and gained knowledge. She wasn't an adolescent, hormonal teenager anymore. She was a woman.

Then why did she still feel like a student when she came down in the dungeons? Hermione was a Gryffindor, so what was wrong with her? Going back to her old school, visiting an old professor, practically a contemporary now that she had her teaching degree, should be a joy, not a chore. But it was like facing down a Boggart that wouldn't go away with laughter. It was like having to inhale the fumes of a dead plague victim. She hated fear.

Not even Neville feared Snape anymore. They had, just two years ago, reconciled and Neville even said Snape was an inspiration to him. It did help that Neville looked like a fearless stack of muscles, but Hermione knew most of the change was inside, otherwise Snape wouldn't have cared what Neville looked like. He had even attended Neville's wedding to a young Hogwarts graduate named Natalie McDonald.

Hermione's plucky nature during school was based on the fact that she had Ron and Harry to bolster her. She could hardly ask then to accompany her to Snape's office just to give him samples and ask to help him. But, great god above, she was scared of him. Not just him, his persona, his aura, his attitude, his strength, and his hate. The man stayed bitter like bad milk. Hermione would rather ask a Death Eater for help than Snape…

She stiffened when she realized what she'd thought. Snape was a Death Eater. That's why he was the way he was. He'd given so much to the cause and everyone hated him. That's why he and Malfoy were so much alike. They were outcasts. Malfoy had Ginny, but who did Snape have? Who made him feel like a person again? Who did he turn to when things went wrong? Dumbledore? No one else seemed to be able to befriend him. Lupin? Hermione doubted it. Remus would like it that way, he would like that last thread from his past to be woven back into the quilt, but Snape would never let that happen. Friendship with a werewolf was like friendship with a Muggle. Maybe worse.

So, without Harry and Ron, Hermione took a deep breath, strengthening herself, and opened the heavy door to the classroom.

"Mr. Stanton! I told you to not interrupt me again!"

Oh, Merlin, he had a class. Hermione sighed and slipped into the room without being noticed. Well, Snape pinned her with a deathly glare, but she slunk into the back corner seat, which was unoccupied, and sat there quietly. Not a person had noticed her; they were much too enthralled in Snape's rampage to notice a door opening. Hermione removed her heavy coat and folded it on the desk, straightening her skirt and crossing her legs. She would just wait until the end of class. Unless they'd changed things, he should have a prep period after Gryffindor-Slytherin potions.

Very little had changed, Hermione noticed. The students were all fresh-looking and terrified of Snape. He ruled the class with an iron fist, sharply striking at any uprising or potential uprising. Black clouds seemed to make up his outfit, for they flowed with a singular airy quality that Hermione never saw anyone else use. Maybe they were enchanted…

As the students filed out, one girl Hermione thought was crying, very few looked in her direction. They were quiet and somber; Hermione recalled the feeling herself coming out of Potions with Snape. It appeared Hermione's memory served right, for Snape motioned for her to follow him into his office during his prep period. He was short and curt, not menacing as he had been before.

Hermione sat in the chair and put the basket on his desk and noted that he filled up a glass of whiskey as she did. She wasn't aware that he drank. Malfoy did, but that was no secret. Did they trade alcohol brands? Hermione frowned to herself and prepared for bitter anger and boosted her bravery with the memory of cursing Snape in her third year. She swallowed and tried a small smile, which he sneered at and rapped his fingers as he asked his question.

"Why are you here?"

* * *

º"…breathe deep the gathering gloom." – lyrics from "Knights in White Satin" by the Moody Blues

º"…ere it would be ever green." – come on you guys, let's get some LOTR action in here

º"…like the desert needs the rain." – lyrics from "Missing You" by Everything But the Girl

ºGrise Fiord – Grise Fiord is a very small (city, town, village?) on Ellesmere Island, part of Nunavut, the northernmost Canadian Province. It has a population of about one hundred sixty people, which is Inuit-based.

º"Odysseus was a fool, Penelope. I'm coming home to Ithaca; don't worry." – Percy to Penelope in allusion to _The Odyssey_. Odysseus was the hero who separated from his wife, Penelope, and left his home, Ithaca, to fight in the Trojan War. Since Poseidon placed a curse on the voyage, Odysseus was the only man to return home out of the whole army…twenty years after he left.

ºStrange bedfellows – political term, I thought it was cute


	18. All Along the Watchtower

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:**

**All Along the Watchtowerº**

* * *

_A Short Lesson in Pain, Part I_

Draco tapped his wand on the arm of the chair that the Death Eater was strapped in. The Death Eater, maskless and robeless, looked less intimidating and more pathetic to Draco's eyes, for the man was balding and had wrinkles extending from his eyes to his mouth. Still, the man had been a powerful Death Eater, in the higher ranks of Voldemort's organization. His name was Siguard, Morton Siguard. While his appearance was haggard and worn, for he had been running for two days, he was still bitter and sarcastic, cruel and evil to the end.

"I will ask you again, Siguard," Draco warned, "and then I will begin to torture you. Where is Voldemort? How many men are with him? How is he hiding himself?"

Siguard promptly spat in Draco's face and Draco promptly slapped his. Then, wiping the saliva from his face he brought his wand to the tip of Siguard's nose. "You can't do things like that," Siguard said assuredly, "you're Ministry. You have to send me to Azkaban or something."

Draco could feel the man's fear. Yes, Siguard wanted to stay as far away from Draco as he could. It was rumored Draco was crazy, and maybe he was, because Draco rather enjoyed killing Death Eaters. Draco pressed a finger on Siguard's throat, finding his pulse. "You're heart is racing, Siguard. Are you afraid?"

"You wish," Siguard growled. There was doubt laced in the growl, and it made Draco smile.

"You knew Lucius, didn't you," Draco more stated than asked. Without waiting for Siguard to respond, Draco withdrew his wand and turned his back on the captive. "He was a very evil man, insane, they say. Well, as his son I claim to be very much like him, evil, probably, insane, most likely, but twisted and demented, a Death Eater, no. So you see, being a Death Eater puts you at a severe disadvantage. You have taken from me, maybe not you personally, but Voldemort certainly, what things I want in life. Now I will take my revenge on you as if you were Voldemort, or I will take revenge on you as a man, and kill you fast. It is your choice. You have ten seconds."

"Spare me, please," Siguard said sarcastically, rolling his eyes as Draco turned around.

Draco gave a satisfied smile. "Well, as you wish." He smirked and pointed his wand at the man. "The spell I am about to cast on you is called The Torture Spell and is Roman in origin. It means 'pain,' and will amplify the pain nerves in your body one hundred times normal levels, while at the same time charging your brain with so much adrenaline you won't be able to pass out. If I flick you, it will be as if I punch you, and if I, say, break your finger, it will be as if I'm driving hot, serrated knives into your eyes. Do we understand each other?"

"You're not allowed to do this!" Siguard shrieked, looking around the room as if for assistance. "You're Ministry!"

"Oh, I can assure you no one cares enough to know how I get my information. They don't even want to know, Mr. Siguard. Now, this will hurt quite a bit. Torturpas!"

Draco cast the spell and listened as Siguard screamed for mercy. It would take a mere four minutes to break him, and Draco looked at his watch to time himself. "Now, Mr. Siguard," Draco said, pacing around so Siguard couldn't see him. He took a-hold of one of Siguard's fingers and began to bend it back. "Where is Voldemort?"

_CRACK! _

"_AAAARRGEHHH! _Oh,_ GOD_!!!" Siguard screamed as he looked at his finger. The bone hadn't broken through the skin, but there was a decidedly abnormal bump at his knuckle. "_AAAAAAAAHHHH!_"

"Pity," Draco mused, "it dislocated before I could break it. I must be losing my touch. Next finger."

As Draco moved to the middle finger the door opened and he looked up. It was Weasel, and he looked serious. "We've got a situation, Malfoy," he said harshly. "Report to Moody. I'm supposed to take over here."

Draco broke one of Siguard's fingers and listened to the screams another moment. Walking swiftly out the door and towards Moody's office, Draco reflected a small moment on how he had acted much like Lucius would have.

* * *

_January 30, 2004_

My son has been stolen from me.

I have a fear – no, not a fear – a suspicion, that I am about to pass through the crucible. Never before have I felt such sorrow, never this sense of hopeless terror. I have lived in fear. I have lived in hate. I have even lived in love. But I have never felt like this. Would it be any worse if Cassian had been ripped from my womb before birth? Would it be any worse if he had never survived our lonely birth? I know not, but when I think of us, alone in the dark bedroom, giving birth in secret, I sob at the fact that I had considered that the worse it could get.

My mother should have been there to help. I do not blame her, because it is I who have broken the tradition. My mother's mother helped birth me. My mother's mother's mother helped birth her. It has been like that, the last of our pagan traditions boiled down to the birth of our children. I should have been able to help Cassian discover his powers. Instead, without my wand and without my Elemental powers, I was forced to tell him, not show him. I was never allowed to move him through the stages of development like my mother did with me.

We have become so dependent on each other, so radically connected, that I can feel his heartbeat within my soul. My Elemental powers ache for his, and no amount of Delacour girls fawning over me, their powers touching mine cautiously, can replace him. I will teach them, for their father is away, and doesn't know how. They are more in tune with their Element than they think. But they are so much different from Cassian; they don't have the fire he has.

I have resolved to find my Cassian. I will walk the world for him, and I will never give up. Nothing is worse than this eternal hell I now live in. Never, not in my life, have I wanted to kill with this fury. I hated Riddle, and I would have killed him if I had the power, but I never felt the cold rage of revenge.

I will kill Cassian's captors with my bare hands.

* * *

_The Following_

Draco watched the meeting in a reserved fashion. The High Prefect, an aging woman named Matilda Law, was conversing adamantly with Moody, Dumbledore, and Weasley – the Minister. She was cursing Ministry incompetence, claiming that the guards the Ministry sent to protect Selene were inefficient. Draco knew they weren't. Longbottom, loath though he was to admit it, was one of the best in the field. You couldn't say a bad word against Martin Genovese, and though he didn't know the Delacour boy, he looked sturdy enough, and with Longbottom and Genovese backing him he couldn't go too wrong. The main problem was the fact that Cassian and Ginny were now missing.

She hadn't been given a wand, so Apparition was out of the question. Draco knew she had other ways of transportation however, especially if Potter had shown up. They were probably gallivanting across the countryside somewhere, spewing worthless love nonsense and looking for Cassian. It didn't matter; Draco would find Cassian first. He would be Cassian's father, not Potter.

Inhaling deeply, Draco snuck out the back of the meeting, unseen, or so he thought. He made it halfway to the exit before he heard the footsteps behind him. "Monsignor Malfoy! Monsignor Malfoy!" a voice that reminded him of his mother's called out.

It was high, airy, but young. Turning he found he was being tailed by the four residing Delacour children. Well, Achilles was not a child, he was a man, but at that moment he looked very young. But it was the girl that stuck his eye. She looked about sixteen, and was an exact duplicate of her older sister, Fleur, at that age. He remembered the Tri-Wizard Tournament well.

"My name ees Gabrielle Therese-Jeanelle Delacour, daughtair of Gustave and Genevieve Delacour. I beseech you, please, listen before you leave," she pleaded, falling to her knees. She held a leather-bound, familiar book in her arms, and tears were in her eyes. The younger two girls were openly crying, their pale faces stained pink with emotion. Behind them stood Achilles, the eldest of the Delacours, frowning distastefully at the scene.

Draco accented his head and the girl proceeded. "She 'as been writing in zis book; I 'ave seen 'er when I was sairving 'er." The girl blushed. "She ees a very kind mistress, and a very skilled teachair. I want to be just like 'er."

The girl swallowed and bowed her head, extending the book. Draco took it quickly. "This might prove helpful."

"Monsignor Malfoy," the girl, Gabrielle cried out as he turned to walk away. He stopped, not looking back. "She talks of you…all the time. She talks in her sleep, and to Cassian."

Draco Apparated home.

* * *

_January 5, 2004_

I write for the first time in five years. Not short notes on old parchment reminding myself to wash Cassian's clothes. Not hopes written in sand at the beach to be washed away by the tide. Not the scribbles of my mind that I trace on the table. I don't mean that sort of writing. I mean explaining, revealing, and concealing my soul on paper.

Now I will write for myself. It seems as though before I was always writing to someone, but no longer. I don't hope that someone will read it now. I am adult. I have a child. I have responsibilities. I will be mature. Before I always wanted someone to write back, Riddle, Draco, anyone. But now I wish to confine myself. I will resign myself to a solitary life, but I will not resign myself to a silent one.

I was thinking, once the war was over, I would get a job in the Ministry. Percy would find me something I'm sure. And maybe if I saved enough money I could move out on my own. It doesn't have to be anything great, but I would like to leave my house. I could support Cassian and myself, and I could teach him myself if the Hogwarts tuition is too much.

Maybe a small house…with flowers in the windowsillº…an oak in the backyard with a tire swing like I had when I was young… It would be somewhere in the country, away from people. I've come accustomed to a life secluded, like with Welsh, but it was comfortable. I didn't have to worry about the world, or care about it. I didn't have to pay attention to fashions or styles or what other people thought. Truthfully, I never wanted to worry about that. I never wanted to care. I only lived in that world because I had no choice.

I don't want Cassian to be stained with human nature that way. Perhaps…because of what I have become…I cannot understand people anymore. I don't know what keeps me bound. Somehow I feel as though I don't fit in here, as though the only thing that keeps me from committing myself to the Elements completely is Cassian.

Am I selfish? For not feeling accepted? I haven't ever felt like that in my life. I have always enjoyed human nature, feeling a part of something bigger than myself. Humanity gives you that, but I don't feel small anymore. I feel…

…universal…

I feel universal, as though I'm some sort of incorporeal spirit winding useless in a husk body. The Elements gifted me with a beautiful husk body, but it is still only a husk, a shell, a prison that keeps me bound to this earth. If I were severed, severed from my husk, I wonder what I would become? Would I become a true spirit? Would it be like death?

A mist clouds my judgment. Who am I? I have this fear, growing in the shadow of my mind. I have a fear that I am not alone in my mind. I think I am sharing it. This thought is not comforting.

* * *

_January 8, 2004_

A good portion of my time is spent performing menial tasks. After they moved Cassian and I to Selene they seemed hell-bent on occupying me to the full extent. I do not truly mind, but they have thrown me in a room with more than a dozen Elementals and half Elementals that grate on my patience with their fawning.

I must remind myself that they cannot help it. I am an Element; I am like their mother. A part in them sings when I draw near, and it is addicting. I have eyes on me all the time, worshipful eyes that dare not blink lest they miss an action. I have shown by example what the true powers of an Elemental imply. I haven't shown myself, they would worship me as a goddess. Cassian has shown however, what a real Elemental can do. He has healed wounds; he has created a few fires; he has shifted the air to create a breeze. Most of the students are between the ages of eight and sixteen, and have very low levels of competence.

The Delacour girls are the exception. Gabrielle, the oldest of the girls in Selene, for Fleur is performing Ministry duties, is exceptionally gifted, despite being half a Wind Elemental. She works hard, and I can tell has a great gift. She should be learning from someone more her level however, for she has a tendency to compare herself to me, which will not do. She is a kind girl, though, and has great love for her sisters, Sylvaine and Marielle. She teaches them well. Even her oldest brother, Achilles, displays a high level of Elemental competency. Their father must be very powerful. And very proud.

Most of my problems do not stem from my class. They stem from the Coven Witches. I learned that before I was imprisoned I had been named Dreamweaver High Priestess and that Dorothea had stepped down. I was also informed that only a year or so before my return I was removed from Dreamweaver status because I am no longer a Dreamweaver. It is confusing that these women once venerated me but now almost hate me. As though I intentionally am the way I am. I do not enjoy their company.

I am only familiar with Hermione, and she is a very busy woman. I am alone for the most part, except for my small following. I am still very secluded, even surrounded by people. Something is missing…

* * *

_Writing to Who You Thought Was Yourself, Part II_

Draco read the three other entries with a tender eye. So many memories…so many…memories. They were what killed him most these days. The next two entries were dedicated mostly to her observations about the war and other people she had recently met. She analyzed with a practiced mind, as though she had never been gone at all. It was as though she had stepped out of the past to write to him. She pulled at him.

Swishing golden liquid slid down his throat as he closed his eyes and closed the diary. It was his duty, no, his obligation, to find Cassian. Her diary had not given many clues to where she was looking, only that she was terribly angry. Draco was angry too. But Draco had encountered five years of anger, and he withheld much of it now, favoring to release it at a more appropriate time. He would find her and follow her. Ginny's Elemental connection to Cassian had the advantage of time and conditioning. Draco knew his son from a distance, but couldn't find him in an arctic wasteland.

Bowing his head before the fire he made a silent promise to kill Cassian's captors and drew out his wand. Someone would die for this trespass.

* * *

_The Liquid Kiss_

Hermione yawned and rolled onto her stomach, feeling satiated from her rest. She wasn't tired anymore, and she couldn't say that she had a headache. She felt around for her pillow, which had slipped to the far side of the bed…the green and black bed? …With thick curtains? …And…

Oh, Holy God. If Hermione was a religious person she would have crossed herself. She wasn't in her bed. She wasn't even in her room. She was in bed with a man. She was in bed with…

Gods…she had bedded her professor…

He had asked her if she was alone. It hadn't been how the conversation started, but he had asked that. After explaining to him Victoria's theory, about Elements once being human, and the reason he needed to study their blood, she had offered to help him. She hadn't demanded, but she hadn't begged. "Professor Snape, it would be beneficial for both our researching for us to work together to solve this problem. Assisting you was something Coven Witch Bowman suggested, but I would be honored to help you and to learn again from you."

Maybe it was a little thick, but she had meant it. Snape was a brilliant man, a very learned man, and Hermione would be honored to work with him. He had sneered at this, but, to Hermione's surprise, accepted her offer. The silence in the room was followed by a suggestion that they store the samples so that they could get to work the next day. In his personal laboratory she found seven cauldrons, three of which were full and the others empty. It was sparse and organized, even the storeroom, which he directed her to.

And then, in the still of the room, he had asked her, "Are you alone?"

Somehow, deep in her, Hermione knew that the most obvious meaning of this question wasn't his meaning. What his question asked was if she was by herself, if the world didn't know her, if people were foreign, if she had no connections, if she felt unmoved by the love around her, if no one made her happy in any way but to starve off the next bit of loneliness, if she thought friends were mere decorations in her empty life. What his question asked was whether she felt alone in the universe.

She had said yes and meant it. Her self-imposed isolation was infrequently bombarded by Victoria and occasionally Harry and Ron; but yes, she was alone with herself and her studies, and probably always would be. People didn't understand her the way she understood them, and it cast her out.

It surprised her to find he…Professor Snape…Severus Snape…Severus…was a passionate man. He was so stoic and controlled all the time, but the fire in his eyes ignited for her and it took her breath away. Kissing her with an enthusiasm and emotion surprised and delighted her, and the hands that were once scientific and precise were now careful and amorous. She felt like liquid in his arms and could do nothing more than hold on, feeling that anything more would be impossible. He kissed her so that her eyes rolled in the back of her head and she felt an erotic heat all over her body. She had never been kissed like that and assumed that she would never by another person.

Hermione froze as she felt Snape rustling beside her. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, hoping some action of his would tell her where she stood. But he did nothing and approached the fireplace. Hermione finally understood when she cracked her eye open and saw that the fire had turned green; someone was using the Floo.

"Severus, my boy," a voice said from inside the fireplace. Hermione quickly closed her eyes, staying still as a board, because the man talking was Headmaster Dumbledore. How on earth did she manage to get herself in these situations?! "Things are getting prickly in Selene. It seems that Ginny Weasley and her son have gone missing. No one has seen her since yesterday morning. It also seems that Coven Witch Granger has not returned from her errand, which she left to do yesterday. No one can seem to find her, but Coven Witch Bowman seems certain she was headed in your direction. Do you know where she might be?"

Hermione heard Snape's weight shift on the wooden floors. "Yes," he said curtly.

There was a silence for a while and Dumbledore spoke again, if not a bit awkwardly. "I see. And where is that, Severus?"

There was another silence before Snape answered in the same short tone. "She's in my bed, Albus."

There was yet another silence and Hermione could swear she heard Dumbledore give a low chuckle. "Well, what do you wish for me to tell them? Coven Witch Bowman is getting rather frantic."

"You may tell Coven Witch Bowman that when…Hermione…is ready to speak with them she will speak with them, and that she is a grown woman and doesn't need to have tabs kept on her like a ten-year-old, homesick Hufflepuff."

Dumbledore seemed to chuckle again and replied that he would relay the message. Then, Hermione heard Snape mumbling to himself and felt him fall hard onto the bed, a slender hand caressing her bare shoulders as it ran through her hair. She controlled her shiver enough to seem asleep, but was reassured by the gesture. His lips fell lightly on her spine, traveling up into her hair, and she realized he was trying to rouse her.

Hermione took her time opening her eyes for two reasons, she loved the way he touched her and she wanted to pretend like she was really asleep. Slowly, sleepily, she opened her eyes and found dark, midnight oceans staring cautiously at her. Up close she could see his age, he had to be nearing forty-five by now, and he had lines around his eyes and mouth that made him look a little older. His hair was still jet black, same as his eyes, and his pale skin betrayed his preference for the domestic.

She had been a virgin the night before, and he had treated her like a goddess, treated her better than any person she had ever met. She had felt such need and love radiating from him she was forced to think that his feelings had developed before that night. Over the years after her graduation from Hogwarts she had seen Snape many times. They were in the Order together, and had even fought in a few battles together, one outside Hogwarts the week after Ginny was captured and one the same day Ginny was captured. She couldn't say they had ever been close, but she had talked a few times with her old professor, never suspecting that he might be feeling something for her. As she examined it closely, she could almost see the signs. Signs not just of his attraction to her, but of her slow attraction to him. It had started as respect, and then grown to a sort of admiration, and from what she had displayed the night before, an intricate understanding of him through observation and probably romantic feelings as well.

And now with his eyes on her intently her mind froze and the only thing she could murmur was, "Good morning." She licked her lips and blinked at him quietly.

"Good morning," he replied silkily.

Hermione found herself kissing him passionately, drunk in the feeling of his hands traveling up her stomach and arms. He rolled her onto her back and kissed her neck reverently, whispering quietly into her neck. He sighed heavily, propping himself up on an elbow and looking her in the eye. "You need to go back to Selene," he said to her. "People will begin to worry."

She looked stonily at the ceiling and pouted. "Let them worry."

"You have responsibilities," he reminded her. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she caught him smirking.

"And I'll be fulfilling them in about twenty minutes. I'm your assistant, remember," she quipped.

Hearing his deep chuckle she turned to him sharply. It was pleasant to see him smile, and she regarded him closely before hoping off the bed and searching for lost articles of clothing. Between putting on her shirt and slipping on her shoes, she turned to him over her shoulder, conscious that he had been watching her intently the whole time. "I don't want Ron and Harry to know about this."

"What a coincidence," he murmured humorlessly. Hermione caught the sarcasm anyway and smiled to herself. She could get to like the sarcasm.

"I'll tell them when I'm ready," she said softly as she pulled on her last shoe.

She was completely taken off guard by his arms snaking around her waist. His teeth nipped at her collarbone before pulling at her earlobe. Then, inhaling deeply, sensually into her neck, he whispered in his velvet-flavored voice, "You smell like me. I like it."

Hermione shivered, swaying slightly with his body before turning and kissing him square on the lips. His bare skin was warm under her fingers, and she delighted in trailing her hands up and down his arms. When she broke off the kiss and looked in his eyes she sighed. "I'll be back tomorrow, to work on the samples."

He nodded. "Use the Floo; it's limited to this building. Use it to get to the main hall and then go to the Apparation point."

She turned to his fireplace and grabbed a handful of the powder. "Severus," she said softly, not turning. "I'm glad to have been here."

She tossed the Floo in the fire and was off.

* * *

_A Short Lesson in Pain, Part II_

_12 Grimmauld Place – Temporary Ministry of Magic Headquarters_

Gustave Delacour paced the carpet impatiently as Monsignor Weasley poured himself another cup of tea. Gustave had been given the honor by his Ministry to act as a temporary liaison between France and Britain. The real liaison was an elderly man by the name of Sailles, a third cousin to Gustave in fact, and he had been ill for several months now. France's Floo network had been shut down in the chaos and the British Ministry of Magic had forbid any Portkeys in or out of Britain for the moment, unless it was to Selene. While Gustave had never acted as an official liaison between countries, he was a fairly important political figure within the French Ministry and knew how to hold his own against the Britons.

There were several other men and women in his place that were also meeting Monsignor Weasley in little over half an hour. Most weren't the normal diplomats, but witches and wizards that either had the stamina to fly or Apparate to the small island of Britain. They were currently waiting for the delegate from Peru, who was flying in by carpet and would arrive shortly.

Gustave had been up all night and morning since he received news that his daughters were to be sent to Selene, that they and the rest of his family were known targets of Death Eaters. Fleur, his first child and daughter, was currently at Gringotts preparing for lockdown; Achilles, his first son and second child, had been honored with the position of guard-auror in Selene; Xavier, his third and politically-minded child, arrived from Hogwarts to assist him were being called the Midnight Meetings; Gabrielle, Sylvaine, and Marielle, his youngest daughters, were residing at the Flying City with their mother, Genevieve. With his family split between three of the most secure locations in the world, Gustave was allowed a small assurance of their safety.

"Monsieur Delacour," Monsignor Weasley said in a dry, English accent, catching Gustave slightly off guard. French was always turned into an ugly language with the British tongue. "Please, sit. My nerves are not quite up to this, what with…with our situation."

Gustave obliged him and sat next to his second son, Xavier.

Monsignor Weasley sat too, across from Gustave and his son with a cup of steaming tea perched in one hand. He pushed his spectacles up his nose and sighed, as if everything took too much effort. "We are both family men, are we not, Monsieur Delacour? I have five children, and a beautiful wife. You have six and an equally beautiful wife. We live for our families. Do you understand?"

Gustave understood what Monsignor Weasley meant by a 'family man,' and also understood himself to be one, but he didn't pretend to know where Monsignor Weasley was going with this line of questioning. He nodded however and waited for the British Minister to reply.

The redheaded man nodded in return and continued. "We are the ones that have the most to lose, Monsieur Delacour. You and I. And all the other parents. We have our families to think of, because really this is what all this is about, isn't it? Family. Our family's safety. Our family's happiness. That is why I took my position. I didn't take it because I would become more successful or I would become richer or I would become more powerful. I took this position because, as a man and a father, I saw it as the best way I could protect my family…my parents…my brothers and sisters…my wife…my sons and daughters. This is…this is why you do what you do…isn't it?"

Gustave nodded again.

The minister was quiet again. "You and I will fight together, Monsieur Delacour. I think…I think that you and I are very much alike… I would very much like to see you with me when the time comes…and it will come, Monsieur Delacour…it is coming very soon."

Gustave watched the young Briton take another sip of his tea, gazing off into a corner of the room, his eyes distant. But he knew, he knew what Gustave knew. The time was coming…when they would have to lay everything on the line.

"That isn't why I called you here, or your son, Monsieur Delacour," Monsignor Weasley continued brusquely, putting down his tea and rising, wandering behind his seat. "Wizards will be pouring in from all over the globe, Monsieur. I want to give them the feeling that Europe is united against – you must pardon me – Voldemort. The envoys from Germany, Italy , Spain , Austria , Poland , and the other powers agree. But, with the past animosity between France and Britain , it seems that our unity will largely hinge on our countries. We want the same things, Monsieur Delacour. I think it is time that the world knows where Europe firmly stands on the issue. This meeting will have many little cliques and sections; I wish to encourage you not to join them. This is not a power struggle, we agreed on this before. This is a struggle for our children. If we get caught up in our own game, Voldemort will win, for he doesn't have to play the same game. He is already united, and now we need to be."

"I understand, Monsignor Weasley –"

And that was precisely when Gustave felt it. It wasn't strong, like an echo of pain, but he grabbed at his head just the same. It was like getting pricked with a needle. It hurt initially, but it soon wore off.

"Father…" he heard his son ask, his voice obviously pained and confused. Even his half-Elemental son felt it.

"Is there something the matter, Monsieur Delacour?" the Minister of Magic asked.

Stronger this time, the pain seemed to come from every corner of his soul, like someone was ripping it away from him, similar to a Dementor but…with heat. This second wave of nausea and pain sent him on his hands and knees to the ground, panting with exertion. His head was spinning, as if someone had hit him soundly over the head with a club. Xavier was grasping at chest, as if he were trying to rip off the invisible vice tightening around whole body.

And again, with so much force that Gustave screamed in pain. He had broken bones before. He had bled profusely and lost blood before. He had been hexed with such force that he sobbed. But nothing, not anything he could remember or imagine, could compare to this hellish pain vibrating throughout his whole body. He was going to die.

Another wave, more intense and longer in duration. Gustave imagined he could hear shouting in the distance, above the sea of pain he drowned in. Someone grasped his hand. It was one of his sons, Xavier by the feel of his Elemental presence. There was so much pain…again and again and again and again…

There was a certain pain in the black place his mind went after that, worse than it should have been. He was even tortured in unconscious.

_Hogwarts – Dumbledore's Office_

For Minerva McGonagall there had always been a bit of offence taken at the impropriety of her supervisor. For one thing, Albus Dumbledore was supposed to be the most respected and feared wizard in Britain. And instead, Albus Dumbledore was a nine-year-old with a beard and a funny inclination towards good, clean chaos. For another thing, Albus Dumbledore was _NOT_ supposed to be offering anyone candies, especially when he should be offering her a brain aneurysm instead. Well, not offering her, but he was certainly trying to give her one.

"You can't keep these kids here, Albus," Minerva explained patiently. "That's clearly against the school code. If a parent, with viable reason and without harm to the child, requests the removal of their student from school then we are compelled to comply. The Ministry could shut us down!"

Albus smiled at her. "I would surely like to see them try."

Minerva sighed. "I'm not saying that I like it, Albus. But rules are rules. And –"

"– some rules are meant to be broken. This is a matter of their safety. Hogwarts lockdown procedure will go along as planned. We will continue taking in any children who need shelter for seventy-two more hours, and then we will go into blackout and shield-up and be not heard of until the end."

His speech brokered no room for protest and Minerva sighed. No one could accuse Dumbledore of being indecisive. No one could accuse him of being particularly predictable either.

And then there was a moment in which Minerva felt quite strange, like she was morphing into her cat animagus form. The pain involved in morphing was never great, and neither was this, but it was there all the same. A peculiar sense of terror gripped Minerva and she fastened her hands to the armrests firmly. She took a deep breath and focused on the far wall.

This next time it was stronger, but not strong enough by half to make her cry out. It was uncomfortable at best. It was getting your teeth pulled uncomfortable. Or getting a shot uncomfortable. Or migraine uncomfortable.

Minerva felt as if Thor's Hammer had struck her in a thousand places at once. She was on the ground, pain shooting through every nerve under her skin, even her eye-lids hurt. This reverberating pain knocked her breathless, and she knew that this was no normal pain. This was Fire speaking to her, but not in its truest form.

"…Minerva…"

Like a distant dream, a memory, ten thousand years ago…Dumbledore's voice reached over time and butterfly-ed over her conscious. The pain was everywhere, and there was no escape. Minerva felt as if she were dying, lying in a pool of her own vomit and she jerked and spasmed.

If this ended her life she would be glad if she never had to feel this torture again. It seemed a swarm of angry bees was chasing her into darkness, stinging her skin and piercing her lungs.

_Gringotts – Outside the Head Goblin's Office_

With infinite charisma and style, William Weasley, Bill to his friends and family, tripped on an upturned tile and caught his balance on the nearest wall. With a goofy grin he threw his hair back and straightened his jacket. He would walk on as though nothing had happened. But, as luck had it, Fleur had seen it and she wasn't going to let him off so easily.

She gave him a sly smile as he approached and batted her eyes flirtatiously. Bill wasn't unlike other men, really. But he did know her trick. She was at least a fourth Veela and she knew she was absolutely beautiful. Bill could never resist her, but it didn't start out that way. She had been attracted to him first. Bill remembered seeing her at the Tri Wizard tournament all those years ago, curious blue eyes twinkling in his direction as he talked to young Harry Potter. The year after that she had started working at Gringotts and a few months after that they'd started dating.

In a way, Bill felt bad for dating her. It wasn't her age, she was a full-grown witch and she could date whomever she wanted. But when he knew he might not be able to marry her, that he wouldn't be able to start a family in these warlike conditions, he began to feel guilty. She felt the same way and never pressured him into a proposal, but he could feel her disappointment. He'd talked to Charlie, who was in a similar tough spot. He loved that MacFusty girl, but until the war was over it wasn't safe to marry her and get on with the normal steps of life.

Bill and Charlie had differed from their younger brothers in this way. They were old enough during He Who Must Not Be Named's first rising, and they had seen what it did to families. Just look at the Longbottoms with their insanity – they couldn't take care of their son and love him the way he deserved. Percy and George weren't quite old enough to see the results of that war. Bill and Charlie didn't resent their younger brothers however. Percy was extremely successful, Minister of Magic and all, and his wife and children were beautiful. Not unlike the circumstances of their childhood, no one knew what Fred and George were up to, only that they were brilliant. Somehow George still found time to be a father and husband.

But Bill just couldn't do that to Fleur. He was in a fairly targeted position as head of the Department of Magical Cooperation, not to mention he routinely snuck out onto the battlefield when the occasion arose. If he married Fleur, they had children, and then was killed in the war, he would never be able to forgive himself for deserting her. He felt guilt just thinking about it.

Taking a deep breath, Bill smiled at his beloved little Frenchie-Veela and swept her up into an active waltz, no music playing in the dim, deserted hallway outside the Head Goblin's office. Her laughter fell like singing water down a cliff and her hair swirled behind her gracefully. With a misplaced dip, Bill bent her back slightly and looked into her crystalline eyes.

A soft, reverent smile crossed her lips and the hand on his shoulder raised to touch his cheek. "I will miss you," she whispered, biting her lip and looking away.

Bill knew she would miss him, because he would miss her. But he had come to escort her from Gringotts to Selene for the single purpose of being able to say good-bye. Or as she always said with imperfect grammar, "No good-byes, only see-laters." He had been forced to say too many "see-laters" to her in his life, that he vowed if this war ended right and they were still living, he was going to marry her and worship her for the rest of their lives.

He slid his hand through her soft, blond hair to cradle her head. Then he kissed her like it would be the last time he would have the chance. He could immediately feel her tears on his cheeks as she wound her arms around his neck and shuddered. Too often Bill forgot how fragile she really was; she always gave off an air of superiority and independence. But Bill knew she wanted to be loved, she had told him. "None of zis 'love at fairst sight' nonsense. I want a man to love me forevair." Bill would love her forever.

They stood their clinging to each other for a few moments, just breathing in each other's ears sweet nothings. Bill couldn't understand most of hers; they were in French. But he made sure she knew how he felt and what exactly was going to happen when he came back to get her again.

Then they began the long trek to the only Apparition site left in the vicinity of Gringotts. Most of the sites had been shut down for the oncoming battle. Fleur would Apparate to the Hogwarts station, the one before the front gates, and step on one of the last Portkeys to Selene in Aujuittqu. There she would be safe and Bill wouldn't have to worry about her.

About halfway down the hall Fleur stopped and took her hand out of his, putting it on her own stomach. She swayed slightly and Bill grabbed hold of her shoulders to support her. "Fleur?" he asked worriedly, seeing the dazed look in her eyes.

She was breathing heavily, as if she had just ran a race down the corridors. "Bill…" she murmured.

Then she was screaming as her legs fell out from under her and she landed on the floor before Bill could catch her again. "Fleur!" Bill shouted as she moaned on the ground, tears falling from her eyes and pained shrieks flying from her lips.

She began to be wracked with terrible spasms and Bill was near to petrification in fear. He did the only thing he could think and grabbed her around the waist and held her arms to her sides in hopes she wouldn't hurt herself. Her screams and his penetrated the mountain fortress of Gringotts and goblins came running to the scene.

"Bill!!!" she screamed one last time before her eyes closed and she passed out. Her body was still reacting to the pain and flailing about when the goblins came rushing up, speaking hurriedly.

Tears were running down Bill's face from fear and all he could remember was them disentangling him from her body and letting him follow them as they took her to the infirmary.

_The Flying City of Selene in Aujuittqu – Portkey Station_

Neville had never pinned himself as the smartest man on the planet. He wasn't ever the richest, and he wasn't ever what girls called a heartthrob. Those were some of the reasons why he couldn't understand why this beautiful, perfect, wonderful girl was even considering looking in his direction.

Neville Longbottom had made a lot of changes in his life since his last year at Hogwarts. His Gran had pushed him one too many times, so he had moved out as soon as he graduated. He got a job organizing plants and herbs in an apothecary on Diagon Ally to pay for his shack of an apartment. He wasn't allowed to mix potions. It wasn't the cleanest of ways to live, and it certainly wasn't the easiest, and he definitely made his fair share of mistakes. It didn't get easier, but he never regretted his decision, and he never considered going back to living with his Gran.

While living on his own he had made several life-altering decisions, including the decision to stop being a butterball and shave off his twelve-year-old baby fat. He'd gone to what Muggles called a gym and began copying what other men were doing. The amazing potential of his body to put on muscle surprised him, and Neville found himself wondering if all he'd thought about himself was wrong. He looked strong, and he was strong – stronger than he really knew. It wasn't just his body that was changing. It was the way he thought. He could do things; he knew he could. He began to excel at work and they began letting him work with potions. With this confidence he was able to do things he never thought possible, and soon enough he felt he had the right mind-frame to go out for the Auror force.

That had always been his goal. It was why he hung around Ron and Harry when he could, because they were going to be aurors. It was why he had joined dueling club, and why he had volunteered in Dumbledore's Army. It was the reason that he followed Ron, Harry, Hermione, Ginny, and Luna into the Department of Mysteries. And it was the only way he could hope to avenge his parents.

After retaking the some tests he had failed a few years before, Neville had good enough scores to be accepted into the Auror's College in Glasgow. And he excelled. And he was promoted. And he became a force to be reckoned with. He wasn't any Harry or Ron, but he was a solid soldier. He was someone people could count on. And that was one thing he'd always wanted. All his life people expected him to fail; they expected him to melt cauldrons; they expected him to screw up hexes. Now they expected him to protect them. And he could do it.

But deep down he was still insecure. Sure he had confidence, he was certain of his abilities, but the voice in the background kept on whispering what if…what if… His accomplishments had brought him together with one of his mentors, Martin Genovese, and a top French auror named Achilles Delacour. They were the three best guard-aurors of their age, and they were guarding the most important treasure Neville could think of…children. But no matter how far his accomplishments brought him, Neville still thought of himself as a shy, chubby, third year.

That was why he couldn't understand why this beautiful angel would even glance in his direction. But every day since he'd been at Selene there she was. In the mornings she would bring Martin, Achilles, and Neville breakfast, a French bread she baked regularly. Neville had always supposed it was because Achilles was her older brother and she was just being nice, but Achilles, laughing, had informed Neville that his younger sister, Gabrielle was her name, had a crush on him. And the pastries were for Neville. This had caused Achilles Delacour to laugh even harder and pat Neville firmly on the shoulder, as if to say, 'I like you, Neville, but if you break 'er 'eart…'

Neville thought it was nice. Not just the pastries, but the feeling behind them. The many feelings. Feelings he hadn't had for a long time. Because, at one time, Neville had fashioned himself in love. And for a long time, Neville had believed his wife had loved him back. Natalie was a beautiful girl – a beautiful woman – and a strong Gryffindor. But her love for him had waned when his had waxed, and she had left him for the arms of some other man. A man who stayed home more often. A man who wouldn't leave her to practice or train, or any of the things that Neville was obligated to do. It just hadn't worked out.

But little tingles of emotion couldn't be ignored. Neville hoped he was feeling something special when she batted her eyes at him, and smiled sweet smiles. Neville hoped he wasn't imagining things. Because Neville knew that she was a Veela – or part-Veela. And the thought of something as perfect as Gabrielle looking twice at him made his stomach grow light.

"Good morning," Gabrielle Delacour said brightly, a basket of her French pastries in hand as she smiled genially at Neville, then Achilles and Martin.

For the past three mornings they had been guarding the Portkey point of Selene. It was directly inside the main doors and was portioned off with paint in a large circle on the ground. At the moment, that Portkey area and the front door were the only ways to leave Selene, and so far no one unexpected or unwanted had come through either.

Gabrielle smiled prettily at him as he selected his breakfast. He always chose the same thing, because it was his favorite and he didn't know what the others were. Neville sighed when she moved on and began chattering with her older brother in French. They laughed and Achilles looked at Neville for a moment. Neville was sure they were talking about him and his face turned red. He was sure it did.

Achilles nodded and then turned to Neville. "Gabrielle says that she needs…" at this point he rolled his eyes and looked crossly at his smiling sister, "she needs help moving a room for some new children. Since she can't do it herself, her privileges being restricted after the incident," Neville had heard she'd ran a table into Ginny's skull, "the Coven Witches have told her to find another way to complete her task. And she wants you to help her."

After a short moment of silence, Neville looked at the delicate Gabrielle and then at Martin and Achilles. Martin was smirking and Achilles looked a bit put off. "Ah…will you two be all right by yourselves."

Neville was pulled forcefully towards one of the corridors by a gentle hand, leaving Martin and Achilles with a pleading look on his face, as if to say, 'Just make up an excuse…any excuse… Save me!' But they didn't and Gabrielle chattered happily about this and that until they came upon a long hallway, turned in, and were presented with complete emptiness.

"Zis is it!" Gabrielle smiled. "It ees my responsibility to create twenty empty rooms and put furniture in zem by ze end of ze morning…or else. I am trying to become a Coven membair, like my sistair. High Prefect Law says I am vairy gifted! But now I 'ave a test and I will pass. You will 'elp, Monsieur Lon-bot-tom."

"Ah…what do you need me to do?"

About an hour later Neville was sweating heavily. It was no mean feat to use that much magic all at once, and Gabrielle was a hash taskmaster. She said 'chair' and he already had three by the time he thought to ask where to put it. She seemed very pleased however, and gave every room her stamp of approval before moving on to the next one. Her younger sisters had dropped by to look for a while, but Gabrielle had sent them off with various jobs. Gabrielle, as one of the oldest witches in her position in Selene, took control of many of the younger children, and led them very well. No wonder the Coven was training her this early.

"'Ere, Monsieur Lon-bot-tom," she said with a flourish of her hand. There was a tall glass of lemonade that she offered him, looking rather pleased with herself. "I was thinking…"

And then she stopped, her hand going to her chest in a pained manner. She swallowed hard and looked at him oddly. "Did you…did you feel zat?" she asked quietly.

Neville hadn't felt anything, but he became rather worried when Gabrielle inhaled deeply and then choked, coughing with tears in her eyes. She moaned a little and her eyes rolled into the back of her head. "Miss Delacour!" Neville shouted, rushing to her side as she lost her balance and began to fall.

She was so light, so tiny in his arms, that Neville worried he might break her. Jerking suddenly, Gabrielle let out a loud scream, one that pierced Neville's ears and made him flinch. She was screaming without words over and over, and nothing he said made her stop or calm. Tears were rolling down her face when Neville skillfully scooped the light girl into his arms and began running with her spasming body towards the infirmary.

On his way, passing through the main hall and Portkey station, Neville saw the most astonishing thing. Achilles Delacour was yelling loudly on the floor, shuddering violently as Martin Genovese tried to hold his arms down, shouting for help.

All Neville could coherently recall afterwards was Gabrielle's screams.

_The Flying City of Selene in Aujuittqu – Coven Witch Granger's Quarters_

_The bed still smells like transfiguration_, Hermione noted as she fell face-forward onto her mattress. The rooms were sparse, for she hadn't gotten the chance to become homey in them yet. With any luck she wouldn't need to. Even though the battle was unavoidably on the eve of its culmination, Hermione still, from time to time, entertained the idea of some anticlimactic ending in which world peace was signed into the hands of the Ministry and everyone lived happily ever after. It was a nice thought.

At least she would be allowed a brief rest before she was sent off on some menial task and then off to the books. There was still a lot of questions to be answered. Upon entrance in Selene, Hermione had been debriefed by a stout woman by the name of Caroline something-or-other. The woman had a lisp and a terribly thick country accent, but Hermione gathered that Ginny and Cassian were gone, Cassian presumably kidnapped and Ginny on the rampage after him. No one knew where they were and as many witches and wizards as could be spared were in search of them.

While taking a shower Hermione made a few educated guesses. With the information available to her, she gathered that a large-scale warrant had been placed on several high profile wizarding families and so off to Selene they came. The Weasleys, Cassian in particular, was at the top of this list and had been captured sometime yesterday evening. Ginny had gone after him and neither had returned. Hermione thought Cassian was captured by Voldemort. Hermione also thought Ginny was going to kill someone.

All dressed and clean, Hermione made her way Victoria's rooms, taking her time and gathering herself. Victoria would no doubt question Hermione mercilessly about the previous night and Hermione had no inclination to answer any pointed questions at that time.

And then Hermione heard a high-pitched scream. Dashing to Victoria's chambers, Hermione opened the door to find Victoria crumpled on the ground, screaming and sobbing, wailing and twitching with her sons Lawrence and Fred crying into their mother, convulsing as well.

Hermione screamed for help.

_Scotland – The Highlands_

Draco had used a fairly complex Tracking Charm to locate Ginny. Just to make sure, he hadn't Apparated. He had flown all the way from his home to here. Scotland. Somewhere in the northern Highlands. It was chill and windy, there was a thick sheet of snow lining the ground and not much sign of life. He hadn't seen any homes for miles, but he kept on recasting the Tracking Charm to make sure he hadn't lost her. For some reason, his charm didn't find Potter anywhere in the vicinity. Either he had a very complicated Anti-Detection Charm on him or he wasn't there. Draco was inclined towards the former.

As he flew closer to the location the Tracking Charm claimed, Draco ducked lower to the ground, slowing so that he could see about himself. The gently sloping hills revealed little, but went monotonously on forever. It was early and the sun had just barely poked above the clouds, and it gave the scene a sense of serenity that Draco knew to be false. There was a battle on the way, and any experienced auror could feel that.

And then Draco saw her. She was standing alone in the middle of the snow, wearing a red, long-sleeved shirt despite the bitter cold. She stuck out miserably in the white. Draco hovered about fifty feet above the ground and watched her back as she knelt into the snow on her knees, arms spread out like an eagle. What could she be doing?

He wasn't close enough to hear the exact words, but he was sure she was speaking, but not anything he was familiar with. It seemed…it seemed very old and whispering, and then harsh and cracking.

The only way Draco could explain what happened next was that a large dome of Elemental energy, invisible of course, formed around Ginny and then exploded, reaching far and wide across the countryside and dying out, like a ripple dissipates with distance from the source. And it knocked Draco off his broom, sending him reeling to the snow, which did little to break his fall. Crippled with pain, Draco rolled to his knees only to be bombarded with another shocking wave of torture.

Draco puked as an intense surge of nausea washed over him. His skin was tingling as if acid had been poured over his body and into his lungs, frying his nerves. This was a pain he had never felt before, something that was foreign. Pain certainly wasn't foreign. He'd had so many types and kinds of pain that he'd forgotten the differences. Did it hurt more to lose your heart or lose your blood from a seeping, oozing wound of red-hot nails being pounded into your thighs? Who could tell?

Another tide of energy caught him on his knees and sent him face into the dirt. Coughing, blood stained the white snow and all Draco wanted was to curl up in a ball and make it all go away. He had battled Dementors before in his life, but even their sucking hadn't prepared him for this sort of soul torture. Surely his soul was coming out of all the pours in his skin!

Again and again he was bombarded, but Draco wouldn't surrender into the dark that threatened to overwhelm. Sweating and probably crying, Draco dragged himself leglessly to where Ginny knelt. What had once seemed only feet was now miles, each inch stinging with new pain. Draco coughed up more blood, wiping his mouth on his black sleeve. He was just a few more feet away, and the crackling energy Ginny was emitting was only getting stronger.

He wouldn't be able to use his wand; he was too weak. But if he could distract her somehow, he might be able to break her concentration and make her quit this torture! By now Draco was trembling uncontrollably, his hands shaking without reason. He had lost rule over his body; his nerves were independently firing.

With extreme effort, Draco drew himself to a kneeling position directly behind Ginny and laced his fingers together above his head. Then, with tears rolling down his face and blood streaming from his mouth and ears, Draco fell on Ginny with all his bodyweight and knocked her to the ground.

Draco shook wildly when he touched her skin, as if something in her very body sent lighting surging through his system. Vaguely, so perhaps it was just a dream, Draco opened his eyes and saw red and white, Ginny's face, before everything subsided into black. Only cold was left.

* * *

º"All Along the Watchtower" – a FANTASTIC song by Jimi Hendrix, though I'm not sure what album it first appeared on, it was actually written by Bob Dylan, but Hendrix made it famous

º"…roses in the windowsill…" – lyrics in the song "Flowers in the Widow" by Travis off of their _The Invisible Band_ album


	19. Caesar and Brutus, Jesus and Judas

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER NINETEEN:**

**Caesar and Brutus, Jesus and Judas**

* * *

_The Prodigal Son, Part IIº_

There was an empty stillness about the room that Cassian didn't like. Sweeping tapestries, dusty from disuse, framed the large, dirt-caked windows. The floor was a cold, gray-green stone covered in different, old rugs and run-down furniture. The air even felt old when he inhaled. And Cassian didn't know where he was. Of course, he assumed he was in some fortress in Eastern Europe, the weather and the accents of the people he'd seen coincided with his theory.

Despite being a very young boy, Cassian was a very_ smart_ boy. From the moment that his mother had returned to power Cassian had felt changes in himself. Whenever he was near her he felt like he was tingling, and all he wanted to do was curl up in her lap like he used to and let the pure power of her soul wrap around him like a warm blanket. He couldn't deny the pull he felt towards her. He had loved her before, but he had felt himself become more and more attached to her ever since they were staying in the white place together…the hospital she said. There was more power in him now; he could feel it. His proximity to her, and her willingness to share what she knew and felt of their shared Elements had, in turn, made him more potent and dangerous. Cassian, during their sharing, had seen memories of long ago, and had knowledge of things in the past, but he couldn't quite say how. There was a certain difference in what he knew, and how he knew, now that she had lent him some of her strength.

Cassian was no fool, he was observant and he was intelligent. He also knew he was in peril. The Death Eaters had overwhelmed him somehow. Something they did or said made him weak, and since then he had been bound and wrapped in a heavy, foul-smelling cloak. Even now there was something wrong, because the power that he had become so aware of and so in love with, was no longer accessible to him. His Fire and his Wind were all around him, in his skin and in his soul, but he couldn't touch it anymore…he could manipulate it.

He had felt things though, awful, painful things. That made him cry and bleed and puke. He could feel her looking, searching, probing for him, and she was angry. Sometimes he could feel her looking for him, before the Death Eaters had taken him, and it felt good and full of love. This was full of pain and hurt and anger, but not at him. The anger was for everyone else.

That had been yesterday morning, and after that he had cried for a long time, quietly and by himself. A man put food under Cassian's door sometimes, grunting and muttering. Sometimes Cassian ate and sometimes he didn't. But he knew that if he didn't eat it would only be worse.

Voices were echoing down the corridors and Cassian scrambled away from the window to stand in front of the door. He knew they were coming for him, because the guard had said that the next time he came Cassian would have to see the Lord, and Cassian thought that meant Voldemort. Cassian wasn't scared of Voldemort, though. The Dark Lord couldn't hurt him, not only because if he did, his mother would be very angry and that would be bad, but Voldemort couldn't hurt him because Voldemort wasn't powerful enough to.

Last night Cassian had dreamt a vibrant dream in red and clear, and the Voice had told him that nothing would be allowed to do bad. They were his mother's mothers and fathers, speaking to him from their dimension. They told him many things, and some were hard to understand in English, but Cassian knew them in the other language that his mother could speak in. It was what she called her tongues. His mother could speak in snake and speak in Wind and speak in Fire, and also in English. This was very talented Cassian thought. The Voices of Wind and Fire had said they would protect him, and that his mother had disappointed them, but he would be much better. They said his mother had been tainted by something along the way, something dark and evil, but Cassian would turn out better and more special. The Voices said that Voldemort wouldn't be able to hurt him at all.

As the people outside his door came closer Cassian stood straight and unafraid. They couldn't hurt him either. The door clicked open and there was a very tall man with sallow skin and dead eyes, along with his mother. Well, she had red hair and glittering golden eyes, and her skin and face were the same.

"Cassian! My darling!" his mother said, rushing him with wide-open arms and a teary smile. But even before she touched him and even before she had said his name, Cassian knew that this was not his mother. He considered saying something, but he wondered if that was a good idea. What would the Dragon Man say? The Dragon Man said that Cassian was smart, that he was such an intelligent boy, and so clever. Cassian thought the Dragon Man was right; he was smart and clever. He would say nothing. Better they underestimate him so he could escape easier. The Dragon Man would be proud of him.

The woman didn't even smell right, but Cassian pretended she did and put his arms around her neck and said, "Mother," in a small voice to placate her. She put him down and kissed and hugged him more, told him that she missed him and that she would take him away with her as soon as she could. Then she took him by the hand and led him down the hall, the tall, dark-eyed man following closely behind.

Though the halls of graying stone, Cassian tried memorizing the doors and turns, but there were so many that he almost couldn't. Everything looked the same. He stared up at the woman for good measure, trying to look innocent and ignorant. The woman smiled and Cassian wanted to reach out to her with his powers, but whatever was in this place didn't allow that.

Soon Cassian was entering a great hall, listening to the woman talk quietly, telling him to be respectful and answer all questions with 'my lord,' or, 'sir.' Voldemort wasn't Cassian's lord, so he would call him sir even though he didn't want to.

The man called Voldemort wasn't as Cassian had expected. In fact, he wasn't how his real mother had told him at all. His mother had called him a monster with pale skin and red eyes, a flat, snakish nose and long, blue-veined fingers. This man was relatively young, maybe younger than his own mother, and had very bright, almost malicious blue eyes. His skin was pale, but not sheet-white, and he held himself with an odd mix of confidence and civility. He at the foot of his ornate seat was a large, long snake with grotesque eyes and a blunt nose. Its pink-red tongue flicked the air, and Cassian knew it was smelling for his fear.

"This is my son, my Lord," the redheaded woman said with a deep bow. Cassian noted that his own mother would never bow to any man, and it made him angry that this woman would so woefully slander the name of his real mother. "Cassian," she continued, rising from her bow. She pushed Cassian forward a bit, and then backed away, leaving Cassian to walk forward several steps in approach of the Dark Lord.

"Do you know who I am, boy?" he asked with a pleasant, though perhaps a bit disdainful, voice. It wasn't at all high-pitched or effeminate like Cassian's mother had said. It was rather nice to listen to, flexible and agreeable.

Cassian nodded. "You're Lord Voldemort, sir."

The man nodded and with a gesture of his hand a chair sped under Cassian's legs and he found himself seated, legs dangling, before the Dark Lord. "Tell me, is Ginevra Weasley truly your mother? And who is your father?"

The boy blinked at him, and then answered in a slow, childish voice. "My mother is Ginevra Weasley. My father is Draco Malfoy." His mother thought Cassian didn't know, but how couldn't he? Who else could the Dragon Man be than his father? Looking at that man was like looking into the future. He played along for his mother, but yearned for the day when he could name Draco Malfoy, the Dragon Man, for his father.

The dark-haired man frowned, an odd, stretch of an expression on his face. Cassian found, the more he looked at this man, the more he realized that the man wasn't comfortable in his own skin. It was as if he hadn't worn anything for a while…a wandering spirit, evil. "Do you know why you're here, boy?" the man asked softly.

Pausing, Cassian nodded. The Voices had told him that too. "So someone will come and get me, sir."

At this Voldemort smiled, something equally as odd on his rubbery-fake face. His hands formed a steeple in front of his face. "My, aren't we a clever boy! Tell me, who would I want to come here? Who would want you that I also want?"

Since his intelligence seemed to amuse the man, Cassian decided on a different road. Perhaps he would gain more privilege, thus opportunity to escape, if he could charm his way to Voldemort's good side. It would be hard, Cassian knowing that this man had no feelings. The Dragon Man said to use his intelligence and cunning, and that was what Cassian intended to do.

"You want Harry Potter to come, sir," Cassian said, smiling innocently. He wanted Voldemort to know he was willing to please, and probably overacting wouldn't hurt. "Sir?"

"Yes, boy?" Voldemort said with interest.

"You want my mother to come here, too," Cassian frowned up at the redheaded lady. "Because, sir, she isn't my mother."

At this Voldemort laughed, a terrible, false laugh, Cassian thought. He slapped his knees almost jovially and with a flick of his wand Cassian saw through the disguise. The woman turned from short and redheaded – his mother – to a taller, more slender woman with short, black hair, pale, flawless skin, and dark blue eyes. She had an ugly expression on her face, and her button nose was turned up slightly, her distaste for the situation apparent.

"It appears your job is done here, Miss Parkinson," Voldemort cooed. The woman turned sharply and left the back of the room in a huff. She may have been upset that Cassian saw through her disguise, or that she'd been made a fool. Either way it elevated Cassian in Voldemort's eyes, and that was a good step forward. "You are a very clever little boy, aren't you?" Voldemort mused. "I have a feeling you and I will grow to like each other, boy. Yes, you have great things in store for you yet…"

Cassian wanted his mother.

* * *

_The Barter System_

Draco had been the first to wake up in the blistering cold that midmorning. His cloak was soaked through and he was shivering. He might even have frostbite, but he wasn't going to check until there was a fire. There was a thin, measly-looking grove of trees breaking the monotony of the Highlands. Draco drug Ginny's body as far as he could before a short rest. His whole body ached something terrible, and he wasn't accustomed to this sort of pain. But he was accustomed to pain, and he made his weakening body carry Ginny's to the grove and set her down in the snowless center of the trees.

He used his wand to light an artificial fire in the center. This was a spell he'd learned in the auror business; it was warmer than normal fires, didn't go out in rain, wouldn't let up smoke, and didn't use wood. Draco was fairly sure that Ginny wouldn't need the fire, but Draco sure as hell did and he cast a drying spell on his clothes and took his boots off to warm up his feet a bit.

Looking at Ginny from across the fire, Draco began having second thoughts about finding her. Potter wasn't there, which was odd, but Draco didn't feel sure of himself around her. She scared him in a way, and he didn't like it. Perhaps he should leave her here and go off on his own… She would probably find him though, because from here on out he was on foot. He couldn't find his broom after he fell, and unless he wanted to risk discovery by either Death Eaters or the other aurors he was positive were looking for them, he had no choice but to do it the old fashioned way. Maybe when he was stronger he could go out and find his broom. It made Draco wonder how Ginny got out here…

Soon Draco was dozing again, so he put his boots on and leaned against a thin tree, gazing over the fire at Ginny. He wasn't really sure how hard he had hit her, and he was sorry he'd had to do it. With the pain and the urgency of it all he couldn't think of anything better at the time, and he could only hope Ginny didn't remember it. Sighing, he pulled out a bit of jerky that he always kept on him for just such an occasion and looked up at the sky. It was darkening again, with thick, gray clouds crowding out the sun and sky. It would snow before the afternoon was over, Draco was sure of this.

Just as he was finishing the dried meat, Ginny moaned and stirred, her eyes moving under her eyelids. Slowly her eyes opened; big golden, metal orbs, so intent on the fire rolled back in her head once, twice, and then stayed put. She moved herself to a sitting position and fixed him with an unreadable look. What was she thinking? Draco wondered.

For a few moments she just breathed. Finally she drew her legs into comfortable pretzel imitation and rested her elbows on her knees. Licking her lips, she spoke clearly. "What are you doing here?"

Draco didn't answer directly, but instead took out an elegant, silver flask and took a light sip of fiery alcohol. It helped his head. "I'm going to get my son back."

She sighed and looked away, her mouth twitching. Draco could tell she was holding something back. He knew her too well to think she wouldn't question him.

"I thought he wasn't your son," she whispered. It carried injured tones back to Draco across the fake fire.

"Bloody hell, woman! Of course, he's my son! Have you looked at him? Whose son could he possibly be?!" Draco barked gruffly, taking a more liberal swig from his flask before looking away into the trees as well.

"Well –" But Ginny stopped and folded her fingers in front of her crossed shins. She inhaled and exhaled loudly and then spoke again. "I don't need your help. Go back home. Go back to your job. You'll just slow me down."

Draco turned and met her hard eyes effortlessly. So this was how it was going to be. "I'm the fucking _auror_ here, Ginny. And I'll do whatever I damn well please. …Especially concerning_ MY_ son!"

"I don't want to fight you on this, Draco!" Ginny growled, their conversation heating up another level as she stood and crossed her arms across her chest.

"I'm the one who has the wand, Ginny!" Draco replied, standing weakly and brandishing his wand.

She frowned at him, crossing the fire to poke at his chest accusingly. "And whose bloody fault is it we're here at all?! Hm, Draco!? If you're stupid auror professionals hadn't let Cassian get away we wouldn't even have to worry about it, would we?!"

Draco grabbed her offending hand and bent down so his eyes were level with hers. He tried to look intimidating. Intimidation was what helped him survive all these years, surviving off others fear of him. It had kept him cold and distant to others, so he couldn't feel and couldn't hurt anymore. At this moment, Draco discovered it didn't work very well with Ginny. The problem wasn't that he felt, it was that the feeling hurt. "That. Isn't. My. Fault."

Tearing her hand away, Ginny made a screaming sound and turned from him, her arms flying above her, exasperated. "My son is kidnapped! Who –"

"_HE'S MY SON, TOO!!!" _Draco bellowed, his energy waning again. He kept up the mask, perhaps just for the sake of tradition. Everyone in his family wore it, why shouldn't he take it up as well?

"_THEN WHERE WERE YOU???!!!_" she screamed back, turning to him again in a fury. Her eyes were wild and angry, bright with tears, and her hair glinting like spilt blood over her pale skin.

Grabbing hold of one of the sickly trees, Ginny leaned back, her knees shaking. Draco, without delay and as swiftly as he could in his condition, leapt to her side and held her up. His hand around her waist and looking down into her metallic eyes, Draco saw the anguish he felt inside himself. Stuck, propped between the tree and Draco, Ginny struggled at first, clawing at this chest weakly before giving up her useless fight.

"Our son," Draco conceded, his voice harsh despite the warmth of his words. Ginny's unearthly eyes gazed up at him, half in amazement and half in something Draco thought he had forgotten.

But Draco couldn't do it. He couldn't become weak again. He would most certainly die again, just like he had. And she was Potter's now. Not his. Gently, Draco settled Ginny onto the ground and returned to his side of the fire. For a long while Draco watched Ginny heave in great sobs. When she began to still Draco looked away.

Their silence stretched like an ocean, uncertain to sail on. But Ginny was the one to break the silence with a startling revelation. She inhaled and cleared her throat. "Since we'll be doing this together, I suppose there's something I must tell you."

"What's that?" Draco grumbled, not hot on the fact that Ginny was there in the first place.

She looked at him sideways, half frowning, before she continued. "I know where Cassian is," Ginny revealed. That caught Draco's attention. "But there's a catch," Ginny said quickly. It was too good to be true, Draco thought humorlessly. "I made a trade – finding Cassian for something I held very dear to me…"

"What?" Draco asked.

"My… There's no easy way to answer that question, Draco," Ginny said softly, looking intently at the fire and not at Draco.

"We've got some time before we're strong enough to continue," Draco noted, taking out his jerky again and offering her some. Ginny accepted and chewed for a few minutes before continuing. Her face looked pained, as though she were revealing a truly gruesome secret.

"You know I'm an Elemental, Draco," she started. "I've never made it a secret that I'm a special kind – Fire and Wind. A while back…almost five years exactly, I made a sacrifice, Draco…"

She stopped again, chewing thoughtfully before she started back up. "There's more than just our dimension, Draco. The ones the Elements, our parents, live in is much different than ours. But since their beginning and ours there has been a power struggle. When I was in my sixth year the Elements told me, when I met Fire and Wind, that I was to be a weapon, but I didn't know what that meant. I accepted…a few months after that.

"How could I not!? I would have been killed! I would have died if they hadn't put me under their protection! I was stranded and alone, and I'd just barely lived to escape from Riddle… I had no choice. I became what you see now, what they wanted me to be…an Element but _more…_but special…Fire_ and _Wind…"

Draco watched her in amazement as she poured out her story, now seemingly oblivious to his presence. "That's how Welsh trapped me. He trapped by Element soul…that was a dark spell he used, too powerful for my new powers to overcome. My limitations led to my capture…

She had stopped, as if lost in some memory Draco would never have. Her face was calm, but strained by the pain of her memories. Draco was entranced once again. It was like watching her write, listening to her. This is what she would write in their books, and now he could hear it.

"Even though I was an Elemental at the time, captured by Welsh, the baby we made, Cassian, was still human. I was supposed to change him, remove his human soul and create another Elemental, one not bound by this husk body you see. But Welsh's spell prevented me, and there wasn't anything the Elements could do about it. So Cassian was born, and so much more powerful than I had been in my human body. He was more pure, but not completely an Element as he should have been.

"The Elements are patient though, and they have found a way to have him. They aren't benevolent and great. They're manipulative and cunning, not evil, but not good. They're…almost human themselves I sometimes think.

"I know where Cassian is now because they know, and I made a pact with them…like my own mother was forced to do… traded what they gave me so long ago for that knowledge." She looked strained again. "When I save Cassian, they will…remove themselves from this husk body…and I will just be a husk. No soul, no Elements, nothing."

Draco absorbed this with a stone face, though he raged within. "You'll die."

Ginny shrugged. "I will be a body without a soul…I should have known better than to take what they had to offer. I should have died five years ago..."

"Then Cassian would never have been born," Draco murmured.

Ginny looked at him sharply, her eyes appearing to see him for the first time. She stared at him with her blank expression for a moment or two more, then nodded. "No…then Cassian wouldn't have been born." She sighed and turned her head to the sky. "For most of my life there have been two souls inside my body, fighting for a place. One was human and the other Fire and this time, no matter how hard the Elements tried, there were always two souls inside my body. One was human and the other Fire and Wind," she said, laughing bitterly. "Now I won't have anything at all."

"I won't be much more use to you, you see, Draco? The moment I touch Cassian all my Elemental soul will be gone, and I will be completely gone. Cassian, of course, will be a pure Element then, no human at all. Is that wrong? I have sacrificed him to the Elements to keep myself alive and save him. He will practically be their servant. Did I…" she swallowed, looking at him earnestly. "Did I do wrong, Draco? Please…tell me. My baby…have I saved him or just killed him more slowly."

Draco again stared at her intently. She hadn't changed so much. Still young, centuries younger than him, and so full of emotions he couldn't have anymore. He needed that from her, to be able to watch her feel, like he had. And he had been brave then, too, and joined in. Could he again?

"I'll never let that happen to him, Ginny," Draco assured her. "You didn't do anything wrong. You did nothing wrong. We'll find a way out of this; I'll assure you."

For a long, long time they were quiet. The wind was all that could be heard, and the snow whistled down silently, most of it blocked from them by the thin-boned trees. If Draco closed his eyes, if he imagined with all his mind, he could almost imagine the two of them, in his Head Boy rooms, enjoying each others' soft peace, no words spoken…just love.

"I wonder," Ginny whispered, mostly to herself. Draco heard it though, but didn't respond.

After that, to conserve their strength, the both of them slept until nightfall.

* * *

_Caesar and Brutus, Jesus and Judas – She Calls Herself Righteous, Part IIº_

Not many females ever made it into the ranks of the Dark Lord's forces. It was mostly because men who joined the Death Eaters, dark wizards, had other faults, such as being sexist, heathen pigs. Perhaps being a heathen wasn't so bad – her family, after all, was old enough to have roots in the ancient heathen magic. Just barely though. More often than not, these 'dark wizards' looked down on females as the weaker sex. They weren't capable of power or cruelty – just making babies and looking pretty. Having succeeded in looking pretty most of her life, this 'dark witch' decided that instead of making babies like her mother would have loved, she was going to be a whore to the Death Eaters and eventually join their ranks.

Perhaps she was too ambitious for even a Slytherin, but Lord Voldemort liked that. He also enjoyed demeaning women, as Bellatrix Lestrange had warned her before her fortunate death. Now _SHE_ was the sole female Death Eater – at least in Britain, that is. She may not have excelled in school, and she may not have succeeded in some of her battles there, but she was still smart, still ready to tackle any challenge and prove herself better than the men.

But she had lost again. They would have called it her womanly weakness. And she would willingly accept this brand of insufficiency from her former colleges. They truth was, deep down, down in the heart she had so long though had frozen over, Pansy Parkinson was still a female. She had survived so long on cold femininity, and it had raised her above the other Death Eaters, because this sort of thing intrigued Voldemort. But Pansy couldn't, or, more aptly, wouldn't, put on that mask any more – figuratively and literally.

Admittedly, it had been the boy. Such a small boy, fragile, and angelic-looking. Long, beautiful blond hair, startlingly copper-gold eyes, and fair skin, just as pale as the morning snow. He had light, almost indistinguishable, freckles on his nose, perhaps just five of them. Cassian he was called. _CASH-un. CAAASH-unnn_. Such a perfect name for the boy. No doubt he was a Malfoy. If you couldn't see that you weren't only a fool, but a blind fool.

He had wrapped his slender arms so trustingly around her neck, like a china doll, his thin lips painted on with pearly pink. Pansy loved him; she just couldn't help it. There was something about that boy, something magically motivated, drawing to her soul. When he looked in her eyes it was as if a spear of a thought passed between them. _You and I,_ it seemed to say.

Pansy then knew that he knew – even though she was under the enchantment to look like his mother, he knew she was not. He really was, as Voldemort had called him, a clever boy. Any son of Malfoy had the right to be this clever, and Pansy adored him for it. Even when she was disgraced before the Dark Lord Voldemort, when she was forced to turn herself in shame from the door for being revealed as a failure, Pansy couldn't bring herself to hate the five-year-old who had played her so masterfully.

She was ill disposed to resist little boys in the first place. If her son had lived he would be almost as old as Cassian, perhaps a little older. But he was dead…or had been killed. Probably killed by his father…whoever that was. When Pansy was younger and still trying to join the ranks it really didn't matter to her who she had to sleep with. One of her potions or their charms probably was faulty and she'd gotten pregnant that way. She claimed prolonged sickness for five months after she'd found out and had her baby boy in secret. She was going to get out of the game and raise him as her own…she would have run away to Bulgaria …she had family there that was neutral…

His name was Hector. Hector Malone Parkinson.

Someone had found her, she didn't know who because he was wearing a mask, and he had killed Hector. It almost didn't matter, but whoever they were never said a word, just took Hector and left. Someone had obviously found out she had been pregnant and feared it was their child. Pansy hadn't even cried when the nameless bastard took Hector. She didn't even go after him. She'd never cried for him…

But someday she would.

Sighing, Pansy leaned against the cold, stone wall outside the closet of her room. She didn't have any need to be here anymore. This wasn't where her challenges laid anymore. Touching Cassian was all it took for her to realize this, his cool skin on her neck, speaking to her more than the three words that tumbled from his lips. _You don't need them_, he said. _ You don't need any of them. Look what you could have…right before you. You could have a child. _

At first Pansy had felt like a traitor to herself. After all the work she had done, after all she'd sacrificed, she was willing to throw that all away to be a mother! Would she simply pop out a few kids for a nameless fool and have to pretend to be happy for the rest of her life? Would she have no more challenges, no more opportunities for greatness, no more delight in power? Would she lose all of her freedom just for the sake of a little boy or girl looking up at her with wide, honest eyes that said, Mother, _I love you? _ Would she?!

And deep down she knew the answer. Yes. Because it shouldn't be about the power, or dominion over all wizarding kind, or pureness of blood. It should be about making a world where children could be safe – where all people could be safe. Voldemort was proposing killing, yes. Pansy had killed. She killed full-grown men and women during her times on the battlefield, and once or twice on the command of her lord and master. But she would never – could never – kill a child. And even the thought that a child, an innocent, might have to die ripped her frosty heart out.

So yes, now Pansy was weak. All her strength pulled out by a five-year-old boy with chilly skin. Pansy was a traitor to her kind, and she could no longer face the Death Eaters in her humiliation. She was a failure one final time.

But there was a way to redeem herself. She had known some that did it. That girl with the deep blue eyes…Pansy had hated her with everything she had left. It wasn't because she was a rival in the circles of the Death Eaters, but the gods knew she was. This girl had been so much more beautiful than Pansy could ever be. Long, blue-black hair, slender build, and frightening blue eyes – she was something every man desired, and a valuable companion for any man as well. Before she had been revealed as a spy, she had been running about with some Weasley, pretending to gather information from him and lead him over to Lord Voldemort's side.

She had taken with her Flint – Marcus Flint, a boy a few years ahead of her in Slytherin. Pansy remembered him with a shudder. But, as it turned out, he had been a traitor, too. Pansy had always hated them; she had hated them because they betrayed Voldemort. No one betrayed the greatness of the Dark Lord Voldemort! …They did though, and they were free of him…

Freedom…Pansy would be free of him now, too. She was disgusted with herself for even thinking about this infidelity. It occurred to her that the training went deep, and she was disgusted with herself for being so easy to blindside and fool. Swallowing hard, Pansy pulled out her prized broom from her closet. She packed no extra clothes – there would be no room. She took only her wand and a thin parchment.

Besides Cassian, this was probably the most important symbol of her duplicity, her betrayal of Voldemort to…to Dumbledore. It was impossible to save Cassian right now, or maybe ever, for he was under the guard of Lord Voldemort personally. But Pansy could take the heart of this operation with what she had just tucked into her bra.

Slowly, as if she was supposed to be doing so, Pansy left her room, broom in hand, and headed towards the large windows at the end of the corridor. No one was around, and she opened the windows with her wand, getting more and more edgy as they screamed in protest. A stifling wind blew out of the darkening sky and into the fortress that Voldemort had procured. She wrapped her mink-lined coat around her face and hopped on her broom. It was a Nimbus 5000, and it was her baby. She glided out the window and was almost pushed into the wall adjacent from where she'd escaped. She drew her wand out with a gloved hand and closed the window carefully.

And then she flew like her life depended on it. And it did. If anyone caught her before she made it to the Ministry, either auror or Death Eater, they would kill her, and probably torture her, too. She knew better than to Apparate though, Voldemort would be at her side faster than you could say, "Avada Kedavra." Since she didn't know how to make a Portkey and she wouldn't know where to program it anyway, she could either walk or fly, and she was much more faster on a broom, though perhaps more noticeable. Her magical overcoats were charmed to keep her warm, as were her boots, gloves, and cap, but her face was still freezing. Pansy would give her kingdom for a fire.

Flying southward she began to pass over small towns and villages, so she soared above the cloud-line and was almost blinded by the light of the moon. She pressed onwards for the better part of three hours, before she decided to stop down below the clouds for a while. She saw she was directly on target, soaring over Muggle London. Muggles couldn't see, but from the air there were guide marks to important locations, like Diagon Ally, Gringotts, and the Ministry.

Pansy purposely landed several miles away from the Ministry landing station and shrunk her broom before briskly walking towards the Ministry. She wouldn't attract too much attention this way, and since it was a dark night and she was alone, they might not notice her. Especially if she landed in the Muggle area of London. But the closer she got to the Ministry, the more witches and wizards she saw. They were carefully blended in, but she noticed them. Muggles wouldn't. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and tucked her midnight hair under her cap, bringing it down to shade her eyes.

Unfortunately, Pansy was caught off-guard by a very large black man, an auror by the look of him, who covered her mouth and manhandled her all the way into the Ministry. It was warm, and Pansy thought it was one way to get where she was going, but she was still indignant. To her obscene good luck, the man was too old to know who she was, and since Death Eaters wore masks in battle, he wouldn't have recognized her anyway. Once he had shoved her in the main hall, she noticed there were tons of aurors, busily chattering or yelling, all seeming to have jobs to do. It looked to Pansy as if…as if they were evacuating.

"Lady! What the hell do you think you were doing out there?!" the man shouted, grabbing hold of her shoulder, and shaking her a bit. He pulled the warm hat off of her head and stuffed it in her hands, presumably so he could see her face. Pansy swallowed and fought the urge to curse him for his impudence. But that wasn't the way of the Ministry. That was the way of the Death Eaters. She wasn't one of those anymore. "Haven't you been stationed at Hogwarts or Selene yet?"

"I've been out of the country," Pansy replied slowly. "I returned to be with my family…I don't know where they are."

Pansy had to think fast on this one, because she was either going to have to tell him she was part of a family important enough to stay at Hogwarts, so she could see Dumbledore, or she was going to have to hex him and try to fight her way to Dumbledore. Pansy doubted, with all the experienced aurors about, that the latter was even a plausible option. But before she could name a family, her plans were stopped dead in their tracks by an unbelievable oaf with red-on-red hair and a dubious look on his face.

She was straightening her hair, about to answer, when a loud voice broke her thoughts up. "PARKINSON!?"

In the next three seconds every auror had his or her wand draw and pointed it at Pansy. Pansy, on instinct, had her wand drawn too and had kicked out the knees from under the tall black man, her arm holding out his breath around his neck and her wand pointed at his temple.

Of course, Pansy recognized the man who screwed up her perfect – well, admittedly they weren't that great – plans. He was a Weasley in her year at Hogwarts…Ronald Weasley…sidekick of Harry bloody Potter. And, what joy, the Boy Who Lived was there as well. A fine hole she had herself in now. She would probably die, and then they would find the parchment in her brassiere and regret it, but not so much because she was evil anyway. Well, she wasn't giving up without a fight.

But, once again, some goody-goody auror, Potter, screwed up her newly formed kamikaze plans and said in a calm, soothing voice, "Look, Parkinson, you don't have to do this. Just put the wand down. We don't want to have to hurt you."

If Pansy hadn't been so insulted by the insinuation that she was an errant child and not a full-grown, evil witch with a wand, she could have kissed him for her easy out. But on top of that thought being just plain nasty, Pansy was too prideful to go that way.

"You are all making a _VERY_ big mistake," she warned, trying to save her skin while not appearing weak at the same time. She wished she could shoot her pride.

"Okay, why don't you explain it to us then," Potter said softly. Pansy rolled her eyes as he continued. "We'll talk about this like civil human beings, we'll even get you tea. Just let Shacklebolt go…"

Though she was of small stature, Pansy had been trained well, and keeping this black man, Shacklebolt they called him, from escaping her grasp was fairly easy. Her knee was in his back and she was cutting off just enough oxygen so that he could stay conscious and still not be strong enough to fight her. Pansy closed her eyes for a moment. She didn't have to do this. She didn't have to be like this. Tears came to her eyes when she thought of how painful her death would be. She didn't want to die, and apparently she wasn't in a good emotional state, or even in complete control of her body, for she said so.

"I don't want to die," she whispered just loud enough for Weasley and Potter to hear.

"Yeah," Potter sighed, nodding. "I know. I know."

Her pride was gone. She didn't, _couldn't_ care anymore. She just wanted to die with Cassian's face in her mind. She would die happy… She quickly, in one fluent motion, let go of the black man's neck, shoved his dead weight forward onto the floor with her knee, and held her hands, wand and all, above her head. She felt the tears threatening to fall, and that was when she knew there was nothing left. If she cried she really was just a weak woman. She was just another wussy bitch, just like her mother, just like all those other girls at Hogwarts… She held them back. It was so hard.

It was almost funny, the way this had happened. Her chest began shaking in a silent laugh, and her wand tumbled from her fingers to the floor. Laughing out loud, Pansy fell to the ground on her knees and she felt at least a half dozen aurors grab hold of her body. She was nothing now, just another piece of worthless trash. A stupid betrayer who could have had so much more.

She let them manhandle her, but she had just enough energy and awareness, that just as she was passing Weasley, she grabbed hold of his collar. "Weasley!" she shouted.

Immediately she was hit across the face and stars shone in her eyes as she dipped in and out of consciousness. But she heard arguing voices made her aware that she was now on the ground, having been dropped, and Ronald Weasley was looking at her, his mysterious, hard blue eyes reflecting her face upside down. Apparently he didn't like to see girls hit…how noble.

"What is it?" he asked, almost kindly.

Breathing heavily, Pansy grabbed hold of his collar again and brought his face level with hers. "I know where Cassian is… I can tell you everything."

And that was it. Pansy was a traitor.

* * *

_Phenomenon_

"What do you think, Alastor?" Percy heard Dumbledore ask.

The three of them, the ringleaders of this rebellion, were seated in Percy's office late that night, the evening after the strange epileptic seizures that had plagued the world, and were discussing their next move. Percy was seated behind his desk, a throbbing headache threatening to blow a circuit in his brain, and was listening to the two men speak of other things before the meeting was drawn to the point. The former headmaster and Moody sat in semi-comfortable high-backed chairs, each with some of the awful coffee Percy's assistant somehow managed to botch every day.

Percy had seen this spectacle with his own eyes when Monsieur Gustave Delacour and Monsieur Xavier Delacour had met in his office that morning. It wouldn't be the last time however. Percy heard again of this phenomenon through his brother Bill, who had been in Gringotts at the time and was currently locked in Mungo's for the moment. He had been frantic, telling Percy that Mademoiselle Delacour – the eldest of the Delacour sisters and whom Percy suspected of being an intimate girlfriend – had collapsed in strange convulsions, screaming and crying for a good ten minutes before she spontaneously stopped. All of the Delacour children had been affected as this way. George's wife and children had the same reaction. Headmistress McGonagall had gone through the same thing. Percy even heard a disturbing message from Remus Lupin that his new wife, formerly Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy, had been attacked in a similar way.

All across the world reports were coming in, and Percy had been the first to see the connection. All of them, every last one of them, were Elementals – Fire and Wind Elementals to be specific. There was something going on here, something Percy didn't understand and didn't like. At the moment, all the Elementals affected in Britain were in strict lockdown in either Mungo's, the Ministry building, Hogwarts, or Selene in Aujuittqu. Most of them were still unconscious, though Headmistress McGonagall had woken up a few hours after dawn, as had Mrs. Lupin and Monsieur Delacour. None of them had been able to shed any light on the subject, though all agreed that it was Ginny's doing.

"Are we all in agreement, then?" Moody grunted, taking a drink from his hipflask, and rapping his fingers on the armrest.

"Indeed," Dumbledore said promptly.

Percy felt like an errant schoolboy. "Pardon?" he asked.

Moody snorted. "I said, since we're trying to protect so many impossible fronts, as are many other countries, we should pull our enforcements out of at least two of our fronts. To pull out of Hogwarts and Selene would be most impossible, but I'm afraid we may have to abandon the Ministry and St. Mungo's. We'll just relocate to our other strongholds."

Considering this carefully, Percy answered, "We should leave small garrisons behind at Mungo's and the Ministry, at least to protect our most valued investments. No sense in the Death Eaters getting the magical healing stores or the ancient war weapons kept in the Department of Mysteries if they don't need to. I'd hate to see them get their hands on our Greek Fire…"

"Kamikazes you mean," Moody interjected. "They could destroy the stores if the Death Eaters got too close. Brilliant, Weasley! We'll make an officer out of you yet."

Percy smiled faintly and nodded.

"Agreed, then," Dumbledore interjected. "Moving on to the real purpose of our being here…"

"Oh, yes," Percy agreed, opening his desk. He was interrupted, however, by a knock on his door. His secretary, the one that couldn't make coffee if her life depended on it, poked her head in and winced.

"Yes?" Percy asked.

"I wouldn't disturb you, Minister," she said quickly, "but it's your brother and Harry Potter, sir. They say it's real important."

Percy sighed, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, and told her to let them in. Harry came in first, an unreadable look on his face, and Moody and Dumbledore rose to greet him. Following him was Kingsley Shacklebolt; Ron came in seconds later, pushing an unfamiliar female with him. She had short, very black hair, and large blue eyes. She looked as though she were probably very pretty, but her head was down and her eyes had red circles about them, as if she was ready to cry.

Percy cleared his throat and she looked up, startled, her eyes wandering from Percy, to Moody, and finally resting on Dumbledore. For a moment she was completely still, and then her face crumbled and she took two, three steps forward, and fell on her knees before Dumbledore. Her head pressed against the carpet, her back began to heave and Percy realized she was crying. Everyone was silent, and Percy noticed Kingsley, Ron, and Harry looked particularly uncomfortable.

It was rather hard to tell, but her voice became clearer, and Percy heard what she was saying. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

A few more minutes passed, and Dumbledore finally spoke. "Get up, child," he addressed her.

The girl scrambled up and stood, her head bowed.

"Show me the mark, Pansy," Dumbledore said softly.

Immediately, the girl with jet-black hair pulled back her sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark tattooed on her forearm. It was very dark, very pronounced, and it looked painfully irritated, as if she'd been scratching at it. Silent tears fell down her porcelain face as she looked away from the mark and Dumbledore at the far ceiling corner. Percy felt bad for her, because he knew that somewhere along the lines, Marissa and Flint would have gone through this.

Dumbledore touched it lightly and the girl shivered. Taking her chin with two long, old fingers, Dumbledore turned her face towards him to look her straight in the eye. The girl was still crying quietly, but apparently Dumbledore saw something in her eyes because he nodded and put a hand on the top of her head.

"You're forgiven, Miss Parkinson," he murmured.

The Parkinson woman's shoulders jerked forwards, her eyes looking up at the ceiling again as more tears fell down her face, her chin trembling terribly. "Tha-a-ank you," she sobbed, not even wiping her tears from her face as she reached down the front of her shirt and pulled out a thin parchment and handed it to him. "I'll answer your questions now. Give me the Veritaserum."

"Is that really necessary?" Ron said, cutting in from the door. Eyes turned to him and he blushed deeply. "I mean," he said slowly, "she's been through a lot already. If she's in a better frame of mind she'll be able to give us better answers."

Percy cleared his throat and said, "Yes, yes, I quite agree. Ron, Harry, why don't you two keep an eye on her until we can get her to Hogwarts. We'll question her in a few hours when we're transplanted. Agreed?" he asked, looking at Dumbledore and Moody.

They did.

* * *

_The Age of My Soul_

Draco had extinguished the fire and Ginny's eyes had just adjusted to the dim moonlight. It was very windy, but it wasn't snowing yet, though there were thick clouds in the distance coming their way. They would be up to their knees by morning, so they had best get as far as they could while they were at it. Ginny had eaten sparingly from what Draco had given her, she hadn't been properly hungry in five years, though she had a feeling with the loss of her Elemental powers she would soon regain her appetite.

After she had woken up as the sun was falling, she had taken some time to look at Draco as he slept. She came to the conclusion that Draco had turned into a ghost. He looked the same, almost. He was bigger now, not quite a boyish as he had been. Not barrel-chested, but wider, and he had let his hair grow out to his chin. It was something that reminded Ginny of Professor Snape… His face was harder, older, but not in the sense that his body was aging. His soul was aging. And his skin was darker now, so much darker than hers. Ginny could remember a time when she couldn't tell where her skin started and his began…well, except for her freckles. Before his features seemed to flow, like a single brush stroke. Now he was more put together. Eyes, a nose, a stern mouth, chin, neck, shoulders, torso, and so on. He wasn't so much pretty, like he had been. He was just…a man now.

He had caught her staring as he woke and Ginny had turned away blushing. There was a defined discomfort between the two of them. Perhaps they were thinking things that they couldn't say aloud. Ginny knew she was. She couldn't say them though. She had just pulled her hair into a loose braid behind her head when Draco had called her.

"Look up," his whispered, pulling Ginny next to him in the trees.

Ginny's eyes widened. There was a form of a person on broomstick, flying through the air with all possible speed. Ginny ducked further under the trees and swallowed hard. "Do you think they saw us?" she asked in a hushed whisper.

Draco turned and looked down on her, a lock of hair disrupting his face. "I doubt it. They looked to be in too much of a hurry. Most likely they were fleeing into London. Selene is taking in everyone now."

"Oh," she replied. She looked down at her feet and straightened her sleeves unconsciously. Gazing up again she saw he hadn't taken his eyes off her. She bit her lip. "Draco?" she asked.

"Yes?"

Cautiously, slowly, she touched the pale dangling tress of hair and fingered it briefly before tucking it away behind his ear. "You should cut your hair."

Dashing out of the trees she stood in the snow and listened to him rustle his way into the open. "I bet you could find your broom," Ginny said, not looking at him.

"Yeah," he said, his voice uncommonly husky. "I'll try. _Accio _Firebolt III!"

Ginny looked around and didn't see anything. But Draco tried again. _ "Accio _Firebolt III!" When nothing appeared Draco cursed. "If it's broken then it won't come."

"Try it again," Ginny said confidently.

"_Accio_ Firebolt III!" he shouted.

Ginny ducked just in time. A loud thwack and Ginny saw that Draco had caught the broom with a jerk back. He smirked and stuck his wand back into the deep pockets of his black coat. He hopped on and turned the collar of his coat up. Ginny looked at him for a moment, then frowned.

"You're going to be cold," she said softly. He looked at her curiously, but Ginny shook her head. "I'll be fine." She plucked at her thin red camisole and laughed. "I really don't need any clothes at all –" But before she could finish she stopped dead and blushed, her eyes widening in humiliation.

To her mortification, Draco actually chuckled richly and said something like, "Maybe later," before patting the back of his new design Firebolt. "Go ahead and get on."

Ginny nodded and refused to look him in the face, but she got on the back of the broom anyway and cautiously put her arms around his trim waist.

"Where are we going?" he asked, turning back to her briefly and pinning her with a pointed look.

"Northwest. We'll pass a small lake and it will be on the other side of the next hill. It's not that big, a sub-fortress that Mordred once used. He sacrificed virgins and unicorns there, that's why the other wont be able to find it. It doesn't want to be found."

"Then how will we know it's there?"

Ginny shivered. "You won't need to see it to know it's there, Draco."

Draco shrugged. "One of those places then…all right, hold on."

Ginny's hair ripped behind her, braid promptly falling loose and waving like a flag as they flew. She was sure she'd never been on a broom this fast before, and the jolt startled her. In her surprise she tightened her grip on Draco so she didn't fly off the back of the broom and probably die. She could hear Draco's laughter though his back.

He turned around to her, a sly smile on his face. "Don't worry, Ginny," he said smoothly. "I won't let you fall." He smirked. "It'll just be cold for a while."

Ginny looked him back with a straight face and said in a low voice. "Don't worry, Draco. I won't let you get cold."

One of Draco's eyebrows raised, and Ginny couldn't say she'd seen him do that ever before. But he didn't say anything and pushed the broom faster.

* * *

ºThe Prodigal Son – portrait by Rembrandt

ºCaesar and Brutus, Jesus and Judas – reference to Caesar's betrayer and nephew, Brutus, and Jesus' betrayer and disciple, Judas


	20. Nature Is Fine in Love

**A/N: ** Pronunciation – Rhea (REE-uh)

* * *

**ELEMENTAL**

~by The Labris~

**CHAPTER TWENTY:**

**Nature Is Fine in Loveº**

* * *

_Disappointing Your Relatives_

Pansy had endured her silence for a good few hours. Potter and Weasley had brought her to a secluded room in the Ministry building. There weren't any bars or chains or anything. Just a table, some chairs, and a few couches. Weasley and Potter sat themselves on a couch and began talking together quietly. Pansy took the table, folding her hands in her lap and tracing the wood grain designs with her eyes. She didn't want to talk, and she hoped they didn't either. Well, not to her leastways. The dusty smell of the small room made her think that this room had been cleared out recently, disturbing the dirt. She frowned but kept her eyes firmly glued to the table.

"I said, 'Do you want anything?' Parkinson."

Pansy jerked and looked up at Potter with a scowl. He had spoken to her. She didn't say a word; she just shook her head and put her eyes back on the wood grains. Nothing was worse than having to sit through this. Potter and Weasley had seen her tears, watched her cry, and probably even pitied her. She didn't need their goddamned pity. She didn't need any of them. As soon as this was all done she was going into hiding. Somewhere far, far away. Maybe China …

Her thoughts drifted away to the jungles she'd visited as a child. The stretches of desert as far as the eye could see. Beautiful ocean shores with crisp water. Large, jagged mountains that always had snow on the top. There was something peaceful about that country…some peace that she would never have. Maybe China was a bad idea. She could never obtain that. Not that.

Unbidden, her eyes raised to Weasley, who was studying her unabashed. At school she'd teased him mercilessly. Not always to his back either. She hoped Draco didn't think he'd made the 'Weasley Is Our King' song all by himself. He had been tall then, and he was now. That was one thing she'd always mocked him for, his ungainly height. But now that he'd filled out, wasn't so scraggly, he looked halfway decent. He wasn't what you'd call handsome. No dark eyes and long, rich hair. No tapering fingers and comfortable, long-legged gait. But there was something base about him that made Pansy wonder many things.

She looked away from him and consciously raked her fingers through her hair. It was messy, but always thick. Perhaps now that she didn't have to worry about blood getting in it, she could grow it long like she wanted…

Weasley cleared his throat and Pansy looked at him, her face expressionless. He gazed at her with such intense, clear blue eyes it was hard to remember why she detested him so. He stood up, towering over her, and offered a hand. "I don't know how well you remember me from school, but I'm Ron – Ronald Weasley," he said easily. Then the corner of his mouth turned up in a laugh. "You know, 'Weasley Is Our King'?"

Pansy looked at him blankly, watching as he fumbled for words, his hand still hanging out. He turned a little red and combed it through his hair when she didn't accept his peace offering. He chuckled lightly, nervously, and continued with his inane monologue. Pansy stared inert as he mumbled.

"Well, I know you probably don't think so, but everyone things what you did was really brave today. Not turning away from Voldemort, but, you know, putting the strangle hold on Shacklebolt." Growing surer of himself, he laughed a little more and sat down in the chair adjacent to hers. "The younger aurors pretty much agree that Shacklebolt's never had a woman touch him like that, or, you know, maybe even ever at all. He's probably got a thing for you now, so don't go in any dark corners alone. Gods, I hope I never get so old that I have to get girls to put me in a strangle hold to get a feel!"

At this he laughed at loudly. Pansy thought it was vulgar, but she couldn't help the corners of her mouth turning up as well. His prolonged laughter caused her smirk to curl into a smile, something she very rarely did. Weasley stopped laughing and smiled with her for a moment.

The laughter died down, but they were still smiling, and Weasley said something that made Pansy's stomach flip. "You know, all throughout school you were probably one of the prettiest girls I knew. You look a thousand times prettier when you smile, though."

_THAT _was_ NOT_ how things were done in the Slytherin house! Her eyes dropped and her smile fell, and Pansy swallowed softly. In Slytherin you would beat around the bush, teasing for perhaps weeks before you paid any sort of compliment. But Weasley just went out and said what he felt, what he thought. His brazenness startled her into silence, and she found that all the normal comebacks were lost to her. She shouldn't be feeling like this… But the games were old. She didn't want to play those games anymore. Weasley was in Gryffindor for a reason, because when she glanced up at him he didn't even seem ashamed of what he'd blurted out. He looked…curious.

Pansy opened her mouth. Then she closed it again. "Thanks," she said very softly.

"Sorry?" Weasley said in his deep, manly voice.

Why was he doing this to her? Was this some sort of game Gryffindors played? See who could shock the other person into senselessness? Or into horniness? It was working! Pansy shivered and cleared her throat. Her stomach felt weak and fluttery, but she managed to look into Weasley's brilliant eyes.

"I," her breath caught in her chest. "I said, 'Thank you.'"

Weasley nodded. They were quiet for a moment, and then Weasley spoke to her again in a softer, deeper voice. "Look, it's not like people here in the Ministry care that…you know, you switched sides. Look at Snape. People love…" He trailed off, frowning humorously. "People respect him. And Flint and Mariner…I mean, well, I mean, you're not the only one, okay? And we need all the help we can get. We all need all the help we can get."

He died off, looking at the table as well. Pansy snuck a look when he didn't see. He was playing with something in his hands that she didn't catch. Then he shrugged and looked up at her, shrugging. "So let's get something straight, then. You and I aren't enemies. We don't have to be friends if you don't want. But…if you need anything… Like if you need to get lost on the radar…or if you want a recommendation into the auror business…or you need a place to bum for a while… Well, you know who you can talk to, okay?" He sighed, looking at her thoughtfully.

Pansy licked her lips and stared up at him. He really meant all he'd said…why? Why help her? Why did he have to be…so damn chivalrous? Stupid Gryffindors…damn noble Gryffindors…with their honor…and their bravery…and their stupid red hair. She almost huffed in indignation of it all. Her! _PANSY_ Parkinson. Speechless before some dumb Gryffindor. And all because he meant all that he said. Damn her own foolishness. Why did she feel attracted to this?

"I…" she began, unable to finish.

"Yeah?" he asked levelly.

Change the subject, stupid!

But this suggestion led to one of the more stupid questions she'd ever asked. "Why did you bother?" she questioned. "I mean, why bother listening to me? Why stop them from –"

"Hitting you?" he finished. He didn't even wait for her to nod in recognition. He looked at her darkly. "We don't hit girls in my family. People who hit girls in front of me don't fare well."

"I can –" she began crossly.

"Take care of yourself," he finished again. He looked at her, his eyes softening. "Yeah, I know."

Pansy looked at the table again, all of her anger and potential anger gone. She knew he was looking at her again, but she ignored him for a while. She needed to regain herself for what she was going to do. Something so stupid she couldn't even believe it. He would be the first person to do this with her permission in three years. More maybe. She was going to let him touch her.

Proffering her hand, she gave him a small, serious nod. "Pansy Parkinson."

He gave her a huge, infectious smile and grabbed her hand, shaking it energetically. She couldn't help smiling back at him, his big blue eyes excited for some reason she couldn't fathom. For a moment, for the first in a long time, she felt a stab of happiness. And then the door open and she tore her hand away, her smile disappearing. Harry Potter walked in with a few drinks in his hand.

"Look, guys," he said quickly. "We've gotta go. Stationed at Hogwarts, we are. The Portkey will take us, but we need to be there in five minutes."

They were shuffled into a small area as soon as they reached the takeoff point, and a ball sat at the center of the room. Potter picked it up and Weasley's hand joined his friend's. Pansy looked at it tentatively, but Weasley gave her a big, reassuring smile, and she placed a hand on it. For a while nothing happened, and then she was sucked in by her middle and found herself staggering backwards.

Weasley, firm in his stance, grabbed her around the waist and held her there for a moment, smiling down on her good-naturedly. Pansy swallowed, and maybe she pushed away too hard, for when she turned back to him he gave her a confused, sort of hurt look. _How painful, _she said to herself,_ it must be to have to display all your emotions, right there for everyone to see and abuse. _ Could it be that the point is to find someone who won't abuse your display, and that's how you know that they like you? If they respond to these ill-hidden emotions does this mean they like you too? Gods, she was confused!

"Come on," Potter said obliviously, giving them a hurried look. "Dumbledore, Moody, and Percy are already waiting. So's her Veritaserum," he added, pointing a thumb at Pansy.

Pansy kept her thoughts to herself, but she rather thought that she like to strangle the Boy Who Wouldn't Fucking Die.º Once they stepped out of the Portkey station she found herself walking on memories. She had graced this hall every day of her life on the way to her common room. Elation surfaced as she recalled the greatest days of her life. Five years ago… Gods, so long ago. How did she get so old? Why did she feel so young walking here?

She was led up the stairs, out of the dungeons, and into the main hall. She'd never been to the headmaster's office, but she had a feeling she wasn't going to like what happened next no matter how familiar her surroundings were. A large stone gargoyle rotated when Potter spoke the password, and they began their walk up the stairs. Pansy was glad no one could see her face, for her eyes went very wide when she felt a large hand on the small of her back. Weasley was gently leading her up the stairs, not because she needed support, but because he wanted to touch her. She swallowed when he whispered into her ear, not romantically, but worriedly.

"Don't get excited, Pansy," he said softly, "but a lot of people are going to want to hear what you have to say. Veritaserum will keep you from getting too anxious, but you should be prepared. It's Snape's serum, so he'll be there. McGonagall's the headmistress, so she'll be there. Moody's the head of the aurors, so he'll be there. Dumbledore is Dumbledore, so, of course, he'll be present. My brother's the minister, so he'll be there, too. I think that's all. Oh, and me, too. You know, your guard and all."

Pansy nodded, still bemused that he'd called her by her first name. She could do it, too… Ron. Did she like Ronald better? She wondered if he had a middle name. Ron was odd on her tongue. Ronald would do better. Ronald Weasley…hmm…

"Ah, Miss Parkinson," she heard a familiar Scottish brogue say. It was Professor McGonagall. Headmistress McGonagall now. She would remember. "I remember you. Slytherin, same year as Potter and Weasley over there. It's nice to see you again."

Pansy nodded politely to McGonagall's frankness. "Thank you, Headmistress."

McGonagall hummed and sat in her seat. Pansy received a brief incline from Ronald's brother, Percy, the Minister of Magic. Moody glared at her, and Dumbledore merely let his eyes do all the talking. He was glad she was here, but sad of what he had to do to her. From the corner of the room, the darkest as usual, her old Head of House glided towards her, an unreadable look in his eyes.

"Miss Parkinson," he murmured. "It is still _MISS_ Parkinson isn't it?"

Pansy froze. He knew it was, the bastard. With those words she knew he knew everything. He knew she'd been a Death Eater all that time, that she'd whored around to get her spot, that she'd had a baby…everything. She wanted to hit him. Curse him. Claw his eyes out. Anything to get the pain to go away.

"Yes, Professor," she said. He raised an eyebrow at her. "Sir."

He looked at her harshly, with disdain, and retrieved a crystal vial from his coat. Then, turning from her to Dumbledore, offered it to him. "The Veritaserum," he said quietly.

This was when Ronald Weasley stupidly opened his stupid mouth. "I really don't think she needs it." Everyone looked at him. "Well," he reasoned, "she came here, and she hasn't lied yet. I just think we should give her a chance to explain before we give her anything…I don't know…unnatural."

Pansy watched as Dumbledore's face brightened and Snape's face darkened. "What a wonderful idea, my boy!" Dumbledore exclaimed pleasantly.

It was chorused by Snape exclaiming, "What a truly idiotic idea, Weasley." Then, seeing how Ronald blushed, he looked from him to Pansy and sneered. "She may have managed to charm you, Weasley, but let me assure you that she is far more talented in lies than you are divining whether or not they're true."

Ronald, who apparently wasn't afraid of Snape in the slightest, retorted, "Give her a break, Snape. She was in your own house, goddamn it! Why not hear what she has to say before you demean her?"

"He has a point," Dumbledore said softly.

Snape, with cruelty brimming at the surface of his eyes, looked at Pansy as he said this. "I never trust any of the students I teach. And I don't believe in giving breaks. Why don't you let people who know what they're doing handle this one, Weasley?"

Pansy watched as Ronald and Snape glared at each other. Snape's eyes cut to hers, and she then understood that this was for her own good, and Ronald was being a dumb Gryffindor at the moment. These people wouldn't accept what she said as the truth, or ever really trust her, if she didn't do this of her own free will. Snape had started an argument with Ronald so that she would have support, so that people might trust her even before she took the Veritaserum. The truth would be stronger that way. She looked up at Ronald for the briefest of moment, long enough for Snape to catch it. She gave Snape a pleading look. _Please don't, _she said. _ I'll do it. Please don't mess this up. _Snape glared at her, then raised an eyebrow.

"I'll take it," she said softly, surprising herself even.

As soon as the liquid was down her throat she felt herself moving to a different place. It was a far away place, but not so far that she was lost. It was a nice place, and everyone was there to greet her.

"My name?" she asked. "Pansy Rhea Parkinson, of course."

The murmur of words became clearer with time, and she was able to focus on a single face. Dumbledore… He spoke and she answered.

"I got on my broom. I love my broom. And I flew here from the fortress."

Another question. She wished she could hear him better.

"Oh, they say it used to be Mordred's fortress. Voldemort's using it now. You can't see it unless you've seen it before, like me. I don't even remember how I saw it the first time. That's odd…

"…where…" came out very clearly, though there was more to that question than she could remember.

"Oh, northern Scotland somewhere. I'd have to take you there. It's very hard to find. And, of course, the wards are near impossible if you don't know them. I had wards on by broom so no one could take it…"

"What is…paper?"

That was on odd question. Couldn't they read the paper themselves? It was written in plain English. …Oh, only a Death Eater could read that paper. "It tells you how many Death Eaters are in each country. It tells you the immediate plans of Voldemort. It tells you how Voldemort got his old body…or his new body, depending upon how you see it…"

"…body?"

"Hold on," Pansy said impatiently. "It tells you what wards are around the fortress. It tells you the names of the Death Eaters in the fortress. It says a lot of other things. …Oh, and what they're going to do with Cassian. …_CAAASH-un_…_CASH_-_unnn…CASH-un_… Pretty…"

Pansy was feeling very lightheaded, but she very clearly understood the remaining questions.

"What about Voldemort's body?"

"Oh, that," she replied. "Three years ago he figured out how to fix that old school diary of his."

Someone in the background moaned. She continued.

"It wasn't very powerful, but it was enough. He used whatever was left to rebuild whatever he had…of a soul I mean. I guess with enough direction his old ugly, white body began to change. He's quite terrifying now. Looks younger than me… He's very cruel…" Tears welled in Pansy's eyes and she didn't have the presence of mind to stop them. "I hate him."

"That's good, that's good," Dumbledore said softly. "I need you to write everything that is on that parchment on another parchment, so we can read it. Talk out loud as you write."

Pansy took the quill and studied the paper she stole from Voldemort. Very carefully, as though her fingers were five inches thick, she copied the words one by one onto another paper. She finished and found herself smiling good-naturedly at the former headmaster. He smiled at her and glanced over the paper, eyes widening at times, before passing it off to Moody.

"I have a terrible headache," Pansy confessed. "And a really awful taste in my mouth. …Can I go now? Don't send me back home, though. It scares me there…"

"A few more questions, my dear," Dumbledore prompted. "Why did you leave the Death Eaters, Miss Parkinson?"

Pansy paused, thinking of the real reason. Then she sighed. "Because of Hector."

"Who is Hector?" the man asked softly.

"Oh," Pansy said quietly. Tears fell from her eyes again, slowly, without meaning. "My son. Hector Malone Parkinson. I think he might be dead. But if he were alive I wouldn't want him to grow up and be a Death Eater. Or live under Voldemort. I hate him. His father took him from me you know. You didn't know that; I never told anyone. I hate his father, too, but I would have loved Hector more than there are stars in the –"

"Okay," a sharp, lovely deep voice said angrily. "That's enough. Leave her alone."

Pansy's eyes were still leaking tears when Dumbledore said just one more thing. "Miss Parkinson, what are you going to do now? What do you want to do?"

Pansy had to think about this too. In fact, she was beginning to doubt she had to answer all these questions now that everything was becoming clear. But, for the sake of convention, "I thought I might kill Voldemort. And then go away. I went to China once and it was lovely. And I might like to find Hector, if he's alive. And if his father isn't dead I'd like to kill him, too."

"Very good, Miss Parkinson," Dumbledore said softly, and Pansy's brain began to clear up considerably. While she wasn't exactly sure what she had said, from the looks on everyone's faces told her she may have said too much. She swallowed discretely, frowning at the awful taste in her mouth. "You may leave now. Ron, take her down to a room, maybe in the dungeons somewhere, near Slytherin common room. Harry, I'd like you to stay."

Pansy nodded and stood, letting herself be led by Ronald out of the warm room and down to the dungeons. Her memories resurfaced, letting her recall how it was when she was young and no one worried about things like this. She sighed deeply as Ronald opened the door for her.

"Don't get offended," he said uncertainly, "but I've got to lock you in here. You're still –"

"I know," she said, looking down at her shoes. "Did I…" she bit her lip. "What did I say in there, exactly? I can't quite remember for some reason. I'm not clear…"

"I didn't…I…I stopped them from letting you say too much," he assured her. "I didn't, you know, want them to…to have too much on you. No one has a right to Veritaserum, I believe. It's just wrong, if you think about it." He paused, looking down on her seriously. "I'll bring you some food in a while, but I've got some duties to perform. Papers to fill out…people to shout at…Portkeys to organize…"

Their eyes met, and Pansy felt strangely naked again. "Thanks," she whispered very lightly.

Ronald cocked an eyebrow. "Beg pardon?"

Pansy, again, found herself at a loss for words. And that big, stupid oaf had her again. "I said…" With bravery she'd never felt, she put her hands on his shoulders and stood on her toes, letting their lips brush briefly, pausing, and pushing them hard against her own. "…thanks," she finished.

He stayed perfectly still, and Pansy watched as he got progressively redder. He blinked a few times, then nodded and said, "Yeah, you're welcome. Any time." He looked at her again, shook his head, and turned to walk away.

Pansy ducked into her room, ready to slap herself. She was turning into a Gryffindor. How disappointing for her family.

* * *

_Versions of Draco_

The bitterness of the snow and wind biting at his face was enough to convince Draco that this should be a one-way trip. As in on their way back they should be able to Apparate because Voldemort was dead. In the event that Voldemort killed them, it would be a one-way trip as well. Shifting another glance towards Ginny, he noted (with envy) that neither the wind nor the cold seemed to bother her at all. Her hands hung loosely at her sides and her legs waded purposefully through the thigh-high snow. Draco only wanted her to be cold a little. Not a lot.

This whole thing had been her idea after all. She deserved some of what he was going through. After a few hours of flying Ginny revealed to him that the wards that were coming up were particularly powerful, and that they should probably set to the ground if they wanted to live. Draco didn't have any problem with that except he had been extraordinarily warm that trip, and wasn't willing to lose what bit of comfort he had. He could still recall her slender arms around his middle, her face and chest pressed against his back. So warm… And now, well look at him, he was freezing his balls off.

"Well I can only assume that you don't want to die," she told him with an indifferent shrug. "My protection only goes so far, and if the Elements say we walk then we will walk. I'd be happy to hold your hand if you get cold."

That last bit did him in, because as much as he did want to hold her hand, Draco was a man. Logic failed him on how that worked, but he knew he couldn't hold her hand all the way to the castle. It wasn't dignified, besides. So, drawing his coat up about his ears and neck, Draco pressed forward through the snowy, endless landscape of northern Scotland, and all her terrible beauty.

Their walk was made in relative silence, but about the time they got to the lake, Ginny suggested that they stop somewhere to regroup. He tried to tell her (politely, he thought) that there were only two people and that constituted as a couple, and that if she was waiting for anyone else they'd better turn up fast. She glared at him and ducked into a dense thicket, shaking the snow out of her hair and off her shirt. Draco followed.

Once inside and out of the wind and snow he felt marginally warmer. Ginny looked at him curiously. "What are you thinking?" she asked intuitively. How did she always know what he was doing?!

Draco frowned and looked up at the sky. A little after noon. Not that the sky was very light, only a faint glimmer of the sun through the clouds let on to the time of day. He turned to her again, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth. "I think it would be better if we made this a night visit. It's a little after noon, and this time of year, and this far north, night falls around four. We should set out again about then. It would give us a chance to rest up again, and, of course, give night a chance to cover our location."

Ginny only nodded and settled into a dry patch of ground, leaning up against a dead tree trunk. "You don't think that…" she paused to look at him with wide, innocent eyes, "…that maybe they've done something to –"

"No," Draco said firmly, tossing her his last piece of jerky and biting into his.

Her lips twitched, annoyed, and she took a small bite of the food. After a moment she started up again, "Because, I mean, what's stopping them?"

Draco was sure it was time for a drink. "They want you and Potter there," he replied tersely. "You were supposed to be a group package. Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter together at last."

She frowned in distaste. "What is it with you and Harry? Didn't you, you know, work together for the past five years or so? Haven't you gotten over that stupid little spat by –"

"No," Draco growled. He opened his mouth and closed it promptly. He really couldn't help the words that came out of his mouth though. "As to working together, I was never part of the group. He and Weasley shared the limelight; I shared the actual work. Potter has taken something from me and I want it back before he takes something else."

Ginny was wide-eyed at this, confirming Draco's suspicions. She looked away, licking her lips. "What did he take? I'm sure I can get him to give it back."

Draco snorted, looking at her with disgust. "Unbelievable."

"He's not so bad, Draco," she continued thoughtfully, her eyes questioning. "A little annoying, mayhap, but not bad. What did he take? I'll take it back for you, if I must."

For a long time he just looked at her. She honestly didn't know what he was talking about. More that that, and just because it sounded too good to be true, he wanted to take her up on it. She was offering herself back. "Ginny…" he said after the pause. She was expectant, wanting him to tell her what Potter took. "Ginny, it was you," he whispered gruffly.

There was complete silence for a fully minute. Ginny's face was a solid blank, no emotion registering, no recognition displayed. Distracted, Draco watched her as the tops of her cheeks turned a light shade of pink and her lips parted. "Me?" she managed to whisper back in a strangled voice.

"Yes," Draco said without pause, feeling his heart spike with pain. The first time he'd opened it… "You, Ginny."

She blinked a few times, staring at him in a rather unnerving fashion. Her eyes intent on boring a hole straight through his own, she said slowly, "_What…did…he…say_?" She looked at him for another moment. "Harry, that is."

Draco felt himself turn his lips upward in a sneer. "Don't play dumb. You both are getting…married."

Her head bent down, her face and eyes shaded by her long hair. Draco couldn't make out any words, but he watched, still angry, as she stood and walked over to him. Like a feather she fell lightly into his arms, her eyes smoldering, and kissed him square on the lips, her arms easing around his neck to draw him in deeper before he could move away. Confused, but not terribly upset, Draco let his hands rest on her back, pulling her close as she kissed him with fervor. Draco soon found himself on his back, deliciously warm, with Ginny's legs wrapped around his waist. Kissing her back was like taking a trip into his dreams. Her soft hands on his chest. Her eyelashes fluttering against his face. Her tongue, so slick, parting his lips. Her light frame, ample bosom, writhing against him.

As soon as she stopped he closed his eyes, praying to whatever gods might be listening not to make this a waking dream. She was sitting quite firmly on his stomach, her hands propping herself on his chest. He opened his eyes. "Draco," she said, looking down at him with a soft light on her face. "You're the stupidest boy I've ever met."

Draco's face must have registered his surprise, because Ginny smiled fondly down on him. "Wha –"

She promptly put a hand on his lips and continued. "I'm not getting married to Harry, Draco. That's nasty." She must have caught him brokering for another argument, because she gave him a stiff look. "I don't care what that giant prat said or did, I'm not marrying him…and you can't make me." She smiled again. "Is that what this has all been about?"

Draco could only nod. A dream come true? He didn't care. He wanted to stay here forever, with her smiling at him with all her emotions in her eyes. She took her hand off his mouth and tossed her hair over one shoulder, propping herself on his chest with her elbows. He craned his neck to look at her, and found she was gazing at him quite thoughtfully.

"When this is all over, Draco," she said, looking more like the sixth year he lost than ever before, "I want kids. At least three more. I know you're not big on large families, but you see, Penelope, that's my brother Percy's wife, has quite a head start on me. And I'm fairly competitive, and I'd really like to beat my brothers, show them once and for all. And we make such beautiful children together…well, just look at Cassian. I'd like a daughter you know, and she'll be so pretty you and Cassian will have to beat the boys off with a stick. And I'd like to make sure your family name lives on. Don't give me that look, because I know it's important to you. Big, dark, powerful, wizard's pride indeed…"

"Ginny?" Draco croaked out, seeing stars. What exactly had gotten into her? What had…? Who was this woman? Where was he? Who was he? Okay, those were silly questions. But…Ginny. Ginny didn't love Potter. She wasn't marrying him. He couldn't make her. That much he'd gotten. Ginny wanted kids. She wanted three more? Well, that wouldn't do! Draco insisted on much more than that! …What the hell was he thinking? They had… There was… Ginny was looking at him. She was talking again, or more. He wanted to pass out. "Ginny," he repeated, firmly this time. She stopped and smiled at him.

"Yes?"

Draco paused before he spoke. "I…this is all really fast…"

Her face fell and he immediately regretted what he'd said. "Oh," she murmured, making to get off his stomach.

"No!" he said forcefully, grabbing hold of her wrists and pulling her back down. "That's not what I meant," he whispered softly into her ear. She was tense, but she eventually relaxed against him. "What I meant," he said slowly, "is this isn't the right time to be discussing these things."

"Oh," she said lightly, looking very relieved. For a few moments she just sat there smiling at him, like they were in school again. Draco put his hands on her hips and kissed her again. Things were going to be better now…now that Ginny was back…

"You know," she said suddenly, tearing away from their kiss. "I had a dream before I left. Would you like to hear it?"

He nodded solemnly, watching as she sat up again, rolling over to lie down next to him as he looked at the sky. "Well, it started out normal. I think I was in school. I was changing classes and there was this hallway I'd never gone down before. When I turned down it there were three people standing before me. You when you were a child, you when you were a seventh year, and you as you are now – and you all wanted me to go with you down their version of the hall.

"Child Draco showed me his version of the hall, and everything was dark and mysterious. There were mirrors and shiny, expensive baubles everywhere. He said that I had to go with him to protect him from the monster that lived in the dark.

"Seventh year Draco showed me his version next. The hall looked like your Prefect's bedroom, and everything was as I remembered it. Even that stupid crest of Slytherin I hated. He said I had to go with him because we would be happy and young forever, and everything would be perfect.

"But you, the Draco I see before me, you didn't speak at all. You didn't even try to convince me not to go with the other two Dracos. You just looked at me, and your version of the hall wasn't at all recognizable. All I knew was that behind you, hiding next to your leg, was Cassian. You looked down on him and put a hand on his head."

She pursed her lips and supported her head on her hand, looking over at him. "I considered everything very carefully, and when I started to walk towards you and Cassian I woke up. Cassian was crawling into my bed, said he'd had a bad dream."

Draco turned to look at her. "I guess I just wanted to tell you, that even if…if you and I hadn't…well… I chose you, Draco. Please, try to understand, you can't push me away again like that. Because I made a horrible mistake, and I realize that now."

Draco kissed her until it was dark.

* * *

_Death and the Youth_

Ginny had never felt so vulnerable in her life. Always before there was a crutch she could lean on, something that would prevent the worst from coming at her. First Dreamweaving, and even Draco had protected her from what she feared. But as she and Draco made their stealthy trek to the castle, Ginny felt that she would like nothing better than to run and hide. _Gryffindor indeed, _she scolded herself, raising her head higher as she walked.

Ginny had been the first one to see the castle, and when she pointed it out to Draco he frowned. They both didn't like the looks of the place, but they were going to have to go anyway. While it wasn't as large as the first of Mordred's fortresses, it had all the evil implied. Ginny knew that pure creatures had been sacrificed to make this place what it was.

Licking her lips, Ginny stole a glance at Draco, who was looking decidedly confident. Ginny hadn't spent years in the auror force, hardening her battle skills and her heart. Draco had. All Ginny had was a raw power, a gift that would be taken away as soon as she touched Cassian's skin. Not that she minded, as long as she got close enough to touch Cassian again. Swallowing, she gazed back at the castle, so close now.

They hadn't seen a single guard yet, and Ginny knew that none of the wards had been broken. They were exactly invisible as they would have been if they'd had Harry's cloak. Draco pulled her by the hand to the castle wall, swiftly they jogged to the shadow of the building. He put a finger to his mouth and motioned for her to follow him.

She saw what he was going for they rounded the next bend. A series of crevasses in the face of the wall had been cut close together, maybe an emergency escape. They led to a window on the second story of the fortress, a very clever way to leave unhindered…and enter. Draco ascended first, his long arms and legs making quick work of the steps. Ginny had a bit more trouble, sometimes envying Draco's athleticism. She frowned and finally reached the window.

"There," Draco whispered, leading her gaze with his hand, pointing at an open window two levels above them. "Right there. I can almost feel them."

Ginny frowned gently. She looked at Draco with question in her eyes. He was that skilled an Elemental that he could feel others? Perhaps it was because it was his own flesh and blood, and if he was right Cassian was close. She studied him and then put a hand on the back of his neck.

"What are you doing?" he whispered harshly.

She closed her eyes. "Shhh," she said softly. "Just testing you…calm your mind."

The muscles under her had tensed for a moment, then relaxed. Ginny allowed herself to touch the places in Draco's mind that she'd learned before, seeing that, despite the lack of use and experience, for a half-blood Wind Elemental he was rather attuned to his power. When her powers were gone she could only hope that he and Cassian could help each other…

"I didn't know you were that powerful," she said in a whisper. She met his surprised gaze for a moment. "But you're right. That's where Cassian is. How do you propose we get there?"

Gathering his thoughts, Draco spoke. "Well…I was rather hoping you could…" and then he made a vague gesture with his hand and looked at her appealingly.

She frowned, bemused at his lack of actual knowledge of his own power. "Ah, it doesn't really…work like that…" she said quietly. "I could maybe get us that high…but I couldn't promise that I could keep us stable enough to open a window."

"Oh," he said, looking disappointed.

Ginny frowned again. "Do you have any knives?" she asked, eyeing his belt carefully. He gave her a confused look. "Well, you know, the mortar is softer than most because of the blood –"

"Blood?" he asked.

"Virgin and unicorn blood," Ginny said with a wave of the hand. Draco looked disgusted. "You could climb up if you had the knives to dig into the soft spots."

Snorting, Draco said, "Now why didn't I think of that before." Then, to her, "How will you get up then?"

Ginny shrugged. "When you get the window open I'll try to aim myself as best I can. You'll have to catch me though."

Looking doubtful, Draco nodded and pulled out two, lethal looking sabers. They were short for sabers, and thicker than most, but they looked as though they could do the job. "Be careful," Ginny said softly.

Draco launched himself at the wall, his legs dangling with the lack of footholds. About nine stabs in, not even to the next level, Ginny saw he was struggling a little. "Draco," she hissed. He craned his neck at her, "I'm gonna help a little. Don't get excited."

Concentrating acutely on the air around her, Ginny created a harsh gust of wind that would have flown her all the way over the castle. Draco's coat began flapping about his arms, but he was moving much faster. He made it over the first ledge, and then continued to the next, where Cassian supposedly was. When he was standing on the third level's ledge Ginny cut the wind and sighed to herself. Twenty days ago that would have been so simple. Now she felt as though she needed a little rest.

Draco was peering into the window. He pulled back immediately and made frantic gestures for her not to continue. Ginny wondered what the hell was going on. Draco was sliding around to the next set of windows on the wall, motioning for her to do the same. Her ledge was a bit wider than his, and she walked briskly to stand under him. When she glanced upwards again she saw he had opened the window and was climbing in. For the moment Ginny couldn't see him she felt a rush of panic well in her. What if Death Eaters were waiting in that room? What if they captured Draco? What if…what if he was dead?!

Ginny gulped and looked up again. This time her heart beat loudly with relief. Draco was motioning for her to come on up, his face grim. Ginny focused herself for a moment. She needed to go up, not over. She didn't have as good of control over her powers as she would have liked, and wind was a tricky devil anyway. A breeze started below her and she felt herself begin to rise. Slightly alarmed, Ginny tried to keep herself an arm's breadth from the wall. She powered another strong gust and felt hopeful after passing the first landing.

And then everything cut out from beneath her. She stifled a scream and caught herself by the arms on the landing.

"Ginny!" Draco said in a panicked voice, moving to get out of the window.

Ginny's arms gave and she felt herself gripping to the ledge with only her hands. "No!" she managed to choke out, looking up at Draco. She could do this.

Focusing her will again, the wind gained speed and power and Ginny felt herself rushing upwards with more momentum than she would have liked. Draco practically snatched her out of the air, and she landed with a thump on his chest as they barreled backwards. Breathing heavily for a few moments, Ginny grabbed at Draco desperately. She'd not been that scared in a long time. He was whispering encouragingly in her ear, his hands smoothing over her back.

Ginny finally opened her eyes and looked around her. It was a mostly empty room. A few dust-covered ruins of furniture and some tapestries covered the walls, but most noticeable were the two black lumps on the ground. Draco was helping Ginny up when she noticed them, and she looked up at him questioningly.

"You're a little short for a Death Eater, but you'll do. They're getting younger and younger, you know." He shrugged and started yanking off the black robes of the villains. Ginny frowned when she realized that she thought she knew one of the men. He was a year younger than her…in Ravenclaw… …Michael Corner's younger brother. She gasped and put her hand over her mouth.

"What?" Draco said, looking around worriedly.

Pointing at the fallen Death Eater, Ginny whispered, "I knew him."

Draco frowned, looking closely at the man. Recognition dawned on him. "Corner. Isn't that the Corner boy you dated a while back? Fourth year?"

"His brother," Ginny replied.

Again, Draco shrugged and tossed her the robes and mask. "Put these on."

Shivering, Ginny did as she was told, and soon she and Draco were genuine Death Eaters. She gulped as Draco grabbed the body of Corner, tossing him out the window right after the other man. He looked at Ginny and then brought her close. She felt so out of place in these robes.

"Look, Ginny," he said softly. "You have to act like a Death Eater. Walk with long strides. Square your shoulders, and don't look behind you. Act like you have a permanent bone to pick. Don't speak unless you're spoken too, because you and I are low-ranking Death Eaters." Then, taking off his mask and motioning for her to do the same, he brought his face close to hers. "In the next room Voldemort and a group of about twenty Death Eaters are entertaining themselves. With drink and food," he added reassuringly. "Cassian is in that room, right next to Voldemort. You and I will have to wait for their meal to be over, because we obviously aren't invited." He gave her a stern look. "We'll wait here to see where they take Cassian. We're the door guards, remember that."

With that he kissed her swiftly and told her to put the mask back on and waltzed over to the far side of the door. Ginny took the other side of the double doors and stared at the adjacent set with a numb mind. They would walk straight through here; Cassian would be with them. …How would she keep herself from killing Voldemort on the spot?

* * *

ºNature Is Fine in Love – Nature is fine in love, and where 'tis fine,/ It sends some precious instance of itself/ After the thing it loves. – Laertes to Ophelia, _Hamlet_, Act 4, Scene 5

ºThe Boy Who Wouldn't Fucking Die – came from a reviewer to whom I would like to give credit to if I could remember who they were…


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